A FLY IN THE OINTMENT: IGLESIA NI CRISTO RALLY WITHOUT REPENTANCE

 

Scanning the headlines on Iglesia Ni Cristo (INC) rally at Quirino Grandstand, I noticed a curious omission. Authorities insist the gathering is religious, not political, and the coverage echoes the line.

But nowhere did I find the word that heals, the word that humbles, the word I sought with spiritual eyes: repentance. Without it, prayers rise like smoke but never reach heaven. Without it, rallies become pageants, ointments spoiled by the fly of hypocrisy.

There’s a saying that lingers like a warning whispered through history: There’s a fly in the ointment. The ointment is meant to heal, to soothe, to restore. But what happens when something small and overlooked spoils the whole?

As the INC stages its rally for Transparency and a Better Democracy, I cannot help but see the ointment— and the fly buzzing within it.

White Shirts Without Sackcloth

As I looked at those images—thousands dressed in white, filling the streets—I couldn’t help but think of purity, of unity, of a nation hoping to cleanse itself. The rally’s banner words certainly sound noble: transparency, democracy, accountability.

But as those thoughts settled, another image rose from Scripture: the call to sackcloth and ashes—those old symbols of humility, confession, and broken hearts laid bare before God.

It brought me back to Jeremiah’s time, when Judah was drowning in idolatry, injustice, and corruption. God’s invitation was strikingly tender:

“Return, faithless Israel… I will not look on you in anger, for I am merciful.” (Jeremiah 3:12)

Many resisted, of course, but the prophetic voice kept pressing for national repentance. That has always been the rhythm of God’s dealings with His people—justice that never stands alone, always joined by His longing for their return.

And that’s what made the present scene feel oddly incomplete. Here, the crowd wears white, yet no confessions rise from the ground. The rally becomes a kind of pageant of purity, but without the substance of repentance. It’s like displaying a jar of fragrant ointment while quietly ignoring the small fly floating inside—unseen, but spoiling the scent all the same.

Which leads to the uneasy question: How can the Iglesia Ni Cristo—claiming to be a Christian church—call for transparency while refusing to confront its own complicity through repentance?

Finger-pointing and Three Fingers Back

Reading the rally’s slogans, I noticed how easily blame is cast outward—toward government corruption, toward projects gone wrong. Yet I could not forget INC’s own history.

In 2016, INC officially endorsed Rodrigo Duterte, the man who mocked God and whose presidency became a theater of violence and corruption. In 2022, INC threw its weight behind the UniTeam of Bongbong Marcos and Sara Duterte.

These were not neutral choices but Faustian bargains, aligning with leaders now at the crux of the corruption malaise.

Storms as Divine Mirror

As I reflected on the recent typhoons, floods, and earthquakes, I could not help but see them as mirrors. Nature itself seems to expose the rot of governance, tearing away the veneer of power. The disasters are not only calamities but providential reminders: corruption has consequences, and storms reveal what slogans cannot hide.

Our leaders, providentially, have been unmasked by storms: super typhoons tearing roofs from homes, floods drowning cities, earthquakes shaking foundations. Nature itself has become a mirror, reflecting the corruption that festers in the nation’s halls of power.

Scripture and Providence

In my reading, Romans 13:1-2 echoed like a sober refrain in the background:

“Let every person be subordinated to the higher authorities, for there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been established by God.”

It’s a difficult passage—one that forces us to wrestle with the uncomfortable truth that leadership—even flawed leadership—can be part of God’s mysterious design.

Scripture itself doesn’t shy away from this tension. In 2 Kings 17:20, we’re told that God “punished [His people] by delivering them to their attackers.” John Calvin sharpened the point even more.

Cardinal Sin affirmed that very line of thought, holding up Marcos Sr. and the dark years of Martial Law as Exhibit A. And if that principle still stands, perhaps we must confront the sobering possibility that God has allowed the Philippines to be chastened again through the leaders we have today.

Whether Duterte or Marcos, their rise is not mere accident. They may well be instruments of divine providence—sometimes to bless, sometimes to discipline. And so, this old saying by Thomas Jefferson hits harder than we like to admit.

The Missing Ingredient: Repentance

This is why, as I read the rally’s declarations, I kept waiting for one word to surface—repentance. But it never did. An anti-corruption rally without repentance feels like a prayer without confession: words reaching for heaven but never touching the heart. Transparency must begin in humility, not performance. Without repentance, the ointment remains spoiled no matter how brightly we parade it.

From Flies to Healing

So where does that leave us? What stance should the people take amid this tangled dilemma? Certainly not selective outrage, and not rallies that point outward while refusing to look inward.

The real path forward is repentance—both personal and communal. Only when we acknowledge our own sins, our compromises, our quiet accommodations with power, can transparency and democracy rise from mere slogans to lived realities.

And that brings me back to the fly in the ointment. It must be named. it must be confessed: “Nabudol ako. I voted for Marcos and Duterte.” Only then can the ointment heal. Only then can we hope for God to give us leaders in the future who are not curses but blessings.

Perhaps if repentance begins not in grandstands but within hearts—if sackcloth and ashes take the place of hollow white shirts; if storms are understood not merely as disasters but as divine mirrors—then, maybe, the government we deserve may one day resemble the government we truly need.

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WHEN THE STONES CRY OUT: WHY SENATOR BATO MUST FACE THE ICC

I was scrolling through Facebook one night when a post caught my eye—a strange photo of a pile of stones with the caption: Can you figure what it says?

The image looked like an optical illusion. Some people said it made them dizzy. Others, after staring long enough, finally saw the hidden words:

“The stones will cry out.”

I paused.

Something about that line hit me deep—especially in these days when the name Bato once again dominates the headlines.

A Nation Waiting for Accountability

Senator Ronald Bato Dela Rosa, once the fierce general who spearheaded former President Rodrigo Duterte’s bloody war on drugs, now finds himself facing the very shadow of international justice. Reports say the International Criminal Court (ICC) may have issued a warrant for his arrest for crimes against humanity. Whether confirmed or not, it has thrown the country into a moral crossroad.

And here’s the hard truth: if that warrant is real, the Philippines must cooperate. And Bato—if he truly stands by his word—must face the ICC.

The Social Cost of Hiding

If Bato chooses to hide—especially under the Senate’s protective umbrella—it sends a devastating message: that power shields those who commit grave abuses. It would crush what little hope the victims’ families still hold, and embolden others to repeat the same cruelty.

Impunity breeds more blood. And when justice is mocked, the nation’s moral core weakens. That’s when anger festers into unrest.

The Political Fallout

The world is watching.

If our government shrugs off the ICC’s call, we risk being seen as a nation allergic to accountability. Countries that once treated us as partners might turn away. Isolation isn’t just diplomatic—it’s moral. How can we claim to uphold democracy if we refuse to answer for the blood spilled in its name?

The Economic Consequences

Investors read not just market charts but moral signals. No one wants to pour money into a country seen as indifferent to human rights. A damaged reputation means fewer partnerships, fewer exports, fewer jobs. Even industries built by honest laborers can suffer from the sins of those who played god with other people' lives.

Bato’s game of hide-and-seek with the ICC would not just be a political theater—it would be a reckless move that would risk deepening our already fragile economy.

The Personal Reckoning

Back in March, Bato spoke with bravado: 

“I am ready to join the old man (Duterte) hoping that they would allow me to take care of him." 

Those weren’t just words—they were a declaration of loyalty, of word of honor. But now, that word is being tested.

The Duterte Diehard Supporters, who once chanted his name, are watching closely. If he turns his back on that vow, they might start to see him differently—not as the loyal warrior, but as the man who ran when the real battle for truth began.

The Spiritual Dimension

And that brings me back to those stones: The stone will cry out.

In Luke 19:40, Jesus says these words as He enters Jerusalem, when the crowd is silenced by fear and oppression. It’s a prophecy—that truth, no matter how buried, finds its own voice.

Could it be that Bato himself—whose name literally means stone—is being called to cry out? To speak the truth not just for himself, but for the countless voiceless who perished under the banner of his war?

Bato once admitted in an interview:

“I am afraid of going to jail. Takot ako na makulong dahil kawawa ang mga apo ko at hindi ko na makikita.”

But perhaps that fear is where redemption begins. It foreshadows Proverbs 9:10: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.”

If he truly loves his grandchildren, he must tell the truth. Because real freedom doesn’t come from escaping prison—it comes from facing the truth.

When Truth Finally Speaks

History has a strange way of surfacing what people try to bury. The cries of the slain, the tears of mothers, the silence of fear—all these are the stones beginning to cry out.

And maybe that’s the real message for Bato and for us all: when the stones start to speak, it’s not too late to listen—and to answer with truth.

Justice, however, delayed, will always find a voice.

And this time, that voice might just sound like the breaking of a heart that has finally chosen to tell the truth.

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POLITICS PAYS: HOW EXCESS CAMPAIGN FUNDS QUIETLY CREATE MILLIONAIRES

(Before we begin, a quiet word for those grieving in Cebu. The recent flooding has claimed lives and displaced families, a tragedy that reminds us of the urgent needs often drowned out by headlines. As we reflect on power and privilege, may we also hold space for those whose suffering calls for solidarity, not silence.)

 

Who wants to be a multimillionaire?

Join politics—not necessarily for its infamous corruption scandals, but for a quieter, more "legitimate" menu: leftover campaign contributions. No need for kickbacks or ghost projects. Just a wildly successful campaign, a few generous donors, and voila—your SALN might just sing a billion-peso tune.

That’s the tune that stunned the public when the SALNs were released. Senator Raffy Tulfo and his wife, Rep. Jocelyn Tulfo, declared a combined net worth of P1.05 billion. Instantly, earning the senator a new monicker: The Silent Billionaire. And the silence? It wasn’t just about the money. It was about the how.

The Billionaire Who Spoke for the Poor

Raffy Tulfo has long been known as the voice of the aggrieved—the everyman’s broadcaster, the YouTube crusader who took on abusive employers, negligent officials, and cheating spouses with equal fervor. His rise to the Senate was powered not by political pedigree, but by populist appeal. He was, in many ways, the anti-elite.

So, when his SALN revealed a P1.05 billion net worth, the public reaction was swift and sharp:

“Problem is, his organization is nonprofit. How the heck was he able to accumulate a lot of money kung ang pondo daw ay binibigay sa charity? Something smells fishy.”

“Dami nakuhang padulas niyan… yung mga nirereklamo ng taumbayan kakausapin muna hihingan ng suhol para di ilabas yung issue.”

“Ganun ba talaga kalaki kitaan sa social media that it can make someone a billionaire?”

“YouTube nya estimate ko nasa 7-8m pesos per month. Don’t believe yung mga estimate sa socialblade or viewstats, based yun sa US. Pag ang viewers nasa Pilipinas, sobrang baba.”

“Alam ko na mayaman sila pero honestly never ko na inaasahan na billionaire sila. Pang ilan ba sila sa mga list ng top tax payer kahit para sa mga celebrities?”

“He is also a journalist. But yeah, imposibleng maging billionaire ang isang journalist/YouTuber even if may billion subscribers and views pa sya. I read somewhere before na Southeast Asia ang may pinakamababang rates when it comes to ad revenue sa YouTube.”

A Clue from an Old Interview

An old interview between Jessica Soho and Isko Moreno may offer a clue. In it, Isko candidly admitted that he had P50 million in leftover campaign funds—money pooled from donors, declared as income. When asked where the money was, he replied simply: “Nasa akin.”

Jessica Soho (JS): Sa report ng Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism, nagbayad kayo ng tax na P9.7 million para sa income P50.5 million. Clarification lang po. Yon po bang P50.5 million na yon is the same P50 million na na-save po ninyo from your campaign contributions?

Isko Moreno (IM): Yes, because I had to pay taxes, kapag may natira sa kampanya dahil yon namay pooled account, pooled money, ibat-ibang tao, you have to declare, tapos kapag yon ay nasa iyo na, ay kailangan mo magbayad ng buwis, which is yon ang ginawa ko.

JS: Pero tama po ba na nasa income nyo po yon?

IM: Yon ang sinasabi ng BIR. Kailangan mo kasi, hawak-hawak mo ang pera. Limited ang gastusin mo sa kampanya. Sumobra ang donation mo. So tangan-tangan mo yong pera. Kailangan ka magbayad ng buwis. At yon ay lumalabas na income mo.

JS: Nasaan na po yong pera?

IM: Nasa akin.

JS: Income. Part of your income. Wala ho bang violation doon?

IM: As long na nagbabayad ka ng buwis.

Then-Comelec spokesperson James Jimenez said that there’s no rule mandating the candidate to return the excess funds to the donor.

Then-Comelec Spokesperson James Jimenez

In the U.S., the Federal Election Commission has strict rules about what federal candidates can and can’t do with leftover campaign money. The candidates can’t pocket it for personal use. The rules were based on a study that showed a third of Congress personally kept and spent millions in campaign donations. Congress was embarrassed and consequently passed a law against this custom.

So, If Isko could walk away with P50 million in leftovers, what more a topnotcher like Tulfo—whose campaign was backed by a massive media machine, millions of followers, and likely, donors with deep pockets and vested interests?

The Loophole That Whispers

This isn’t about proving wrongdoing. It’s about asking the right questions.

Should candidates be allowed to keep unspent campaign funds?

Should SALNs include a breakdown of campaign-related income?

Should we, as citizen, normalize multimillion, more so, billion-peso net worth among public servants without asking how?

Tulfo isn’t alone. Most senators are multimillionaires. The Senate, it seems, is less a chamber of public service and more a club of the quietly wealthy. And in a country where millions live paycheck to paycheck, and half of the Filipino families consider themselves as poor, that silence is deafening.

What We Choose to Hear

The Silent Billionaire label may have been meant to provoke. But it also invites reflection. Silence, after all, is not always absence. Sometimes, it’s strategy. Sometimes, it’s complicity.

And sometimes, it’s the sound of a system working exactly as designed.

So, the next time we hear a politician speak of sacrifice, transparency, or public trust, let’s listen closely—not just to what is said, but to what is left unsaid.

Last year, my wife and I were gifted a vacation in Belgium by a dear couple—our children’s former nanny and her Belgian hubby. One evening, as we sat around the dinner table, our host gently pointed to the food we hadn’t finished. It was a dish too exotic for our Pinoy taste, unfamiliar and rich.

“Remember the poor in your country,” he said with a smile, tongue-in-cheek but not without weight.

That moment stayed with me. Because in a nation where poverty is not just persistent but pervasive, it’s not merely the leftovers on our plates that should trouble us. It’s the leftovers in campaign coffers—unspent, unreturned, and quietly repurposed—transforming public servants into private millionaires while public remains hungry for accountability.

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THE BLOOD OF MY SON: HOW REMULLA'S SECOND LIFE SHAKES THE DUTERTE LEGACY

 

You’ve just survived the storm—five arteries bypassed, and your heart stitched back to life. You lie tethered to tubes, dreaming of home, when a voice pierces the quiet:

“You have cancer.”

And suddenly, the valley deepens.

Time doesn’t stop. It splinters.

The sterile white walls blur. The rhythmic beeping of machines—once a lullaby of survival—now sounds like a countdown. Having just endured a surgery that rerouted the very rivers of your heart, you were supposed to be healing. You were supposed to be getting home.

But now, your blood itself had betrayed you.

Leukemia. A word that tastes metallic. A diagnosis that feels like a second fall—just as you were learning to stand again.

You lie there—not as a public servant, not as a father, not as a man of titles—but as a soul stripped bare. The body is weary. The spirit is cracked.

And yet, somewhere in the silence, a whisper rises:

Just live by the day.

It is not resignation. It is revelation.

Each morning becomes a sacrament. Each breath, a borrowed grace. Chemotherapy follows. Radiation scorches.

And then, the miracle—your own son offers his marrow, his lifeblood, to save yours. You wake one day with his blood flowing through your veins.

You are no longer just yourself.

You are a living testament to love, to lineage, to something deeper than medicine.

There are stories that do not shout their holiness, but whisper it—gently, steadily—until the soul cannot help but listen.

Ombudsman Crispin Remulla’s recent testimony is one such story. Not because it was dramatic—though it was. Not because it was miraculous—though it may well be.

But because it bore the unmistakable scent of grace: unearned, unexplained, and quietly transformative.

“Just live by the day,” he said.

A phrase so simple it might be missed—unless one has walked through the valley of the shadow. Unless one has lain on the edge of breath, tethered to tubes and prayers, and awakened not to certainty, but to surrender.

It echoes Matthew 6:34— “Do not worry about tomorrow…”—not as a verse to be quoted, but as a truth to be lived.

One heartbeat at a time.

And then, the confession:

“Maybe I still have something more to do.”

Not a boast. Not even a declaration. Just a wondering—a holy hesitation. The kind that often precedes a calling.

In the language of faith, we call this a second wind, a second chance, a divine assignment.

But perhaps it is even more elemental than that, to be given back to the world, not as we were, but as we are now—humbled, emptied, and strangely filled.

Not with ambition, but with availability that whispers,

Here I am, Lord.

Remulla’s recovery—marked by a quintuple bypass, leukemia, and a bone marrow transplant from his own son—is not just a medical marvel.

It is a parable.

A man receives new blood, literally, from his child.

He rises, not with the strength of his own body, but with the life of another flowing through him.

If that is not a picture of grace—of Christ—of the Gospel itself—what is?

He did not say: God gave me a mission.

But he did say, “Maybe I still have something more to do.”

And in that maybe, we hear the stirring of vocation.

Not the loud kind that comes with titles and applause, but the quiet kind that comes with breath and burden.

The kind that wakes you in the morning and says:

You’re still here. So, love. So, serve. So, speak.

There are still problems, he admits. Still challenges. But he will keep going—not because the path is easy, but because the call is real.

Picture this: Remulla’s family, relatives, and friends read his miraculous story. They rejoice—not just for his survival, but for the strange, sacred arc of it all.

The father who received the blood of his son now walks with a quieter strength, a deeper resolve.

In their eyes, he is no longer merely a public figure.

He is a living parable.

A man who descended into the valley of death and rose—not with vengeance, but with vision.

They gather around him, not just in celebration, but in consecration. For what he carries now is not just a second chance, but a second wind.

And they know: this time, he is not just returning to office.

He is returning with fire.

Now picture this: his enemies read the same story.

They could be cowering—not at the man, but at the mystery.

How does one fight a man who has already died once?

How does one silence a voice that speaks from the other side of suffering?

Remulla’s recovery is not just medical—it is mystical.

His enemies may scoff, but they cannot ignore the timing.

The man they thought was politically buried has emerged with a shovel—and he’s digging.

To rewind: Ombudsman Remulla now stands as the protagonist in a civic drama that could reshape the contours of the country’s political landscape.

He reopens the Pharmally case.

He orders the release of long-withheld SALNs.

He pokes at cases others tiptoe around—Vice President Sara Duterte, Senator Bong Go.

He clashes with former Ombudsman Martires over a “secret decision” reversing the dismissal of Senator Joel Villanueva.

He pries open the Pandora’s box of extrajudicial killings.

The Ombudman’s office, once quiet, now rumbles with battle cries.

The whole shebang takes aim at the Duterte brand.

And so, the irony sharpens.

The former President once mocked the divine with a chilling line:

“Who is this stupid God?”

But now, the man leading the charge bears the name Jesus—not in jest, not in blasphemy, but in eerie, poetic symmetry.

Ombudsman Jesus Crispin Remulla—reborn, yet still bearing the marks of affliction—may appear to the Dutertes as weak

But in that weakness lies a mystery they may fail to discern:

“My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

What they see as fragility may, in time, shake them to the core.

For what rises before them is not a preacher in sandals, but a prosecutor with summons.

Not a sermon, but a reckoning.

Not wrath, but righteousness.

What a serendipity that his first name happens to be Jesus.

And what a journey it has been—marked by blood not his own, breath hard-won, and a burden no longer resisted but embraced.

Here stands a man who does not merely count his days, but consecrates them.

He walks not just in recovery, but in response—to a summon greater than survival.

Not simply to return, but to restore.

Not merely to endure, but to embody redemption.

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'SECRET MARRIAGE' IN GOVERNMENT: WHY TRANSPARENCY MATTERS

 

One Sunday, my wife and I were sitting quietly in the back pew of our church when the priest began reading the banns of marriage. You know the part—where names are announced, wedding dates declared, and the community is gently invited: If anyone knows of any reason why these couples should not be joined…

It’s a tradition that’s been around for centuries. But that day, it struck me differently. Here was the Church, laying things bare. Names spoken aloud. Intentions made public. A sacred union, not just between two people, but witnessed—and guarded—by the whole community.

Then I read the news.

Apparently, back in 2016, then-Ombudsman Conchita Carpio-Morales ordered the dismissal of Senator Joel Villanueva over alleged misuse of public funds. But in 2019, that decision was quietly reversed by then-Ombudsman Samuel Martires. No press release. No public notice. No announcement in the Senate. The reversal only came to light recently, when current Ombudsman Crispin Remulla stumbled upon it while preparing to enforce the original ruling.

And I couldn’t help but think: Was this a secret marriage?

Not of lovers, of course—but of legal decisions. A union between silence and power. A ceremony held behind closed doors, with no priest, no witnesses, and no chance for people to object.

The Church’s Way: Celebration in the Light

In the Church, marriage is a celebration. Even before the wedding, the banns are read aloud—not to shame, but to protect. It’s a way of saying: We care. We’re watching. We’re part of this celebration.

It’s not just about transparency. It’s about trust. About giving the community a voice. About making sure that what’s sacred isn’t secretly sabotaged.

Even if no one objects, the act of announcing matters. It’s a gesture of honesty. A public promise.

The Government’s Way: Silence in the Shadows

Now contrast that with what happened in the Ombudsman’s office. A major decision—the reversal of a dismissal order against a sitting senator—was made in silence. No publication. No explanation. No invitation for scrutiny.

It’s not just about legality. It’s about mood. About the difference between a joyful announcement and a whispered erasure.

In the Church, transparency is part of the celebration. In government, secrecy too often becomes part of the strategy.

And here’s the twist. Senator Villanueva isn’t just a public official—he’s a leader in the Jesus Is Lord Church, a Christian movement that preaches integrity, truth, and accountability. Yet here he is, submerged in a legal reversal that was kept secret for years. No announcement. No explanation. No transparency.

The irony is hard to miss. The very values his church proclaims—walking in the light, speaking truth, honoring the public—seem to have been quietly set aside. And if even our faith leaders in government are drawn into the shadows, what hope do ordinary citizen have?

Interestingly, this secret reversal isn’t an isolated case. Back when Samuel Martires was Ombudsman, he also issued a ruling that restricted public access to SALNs—the very documents that help citizen track the wealth of public officials. Journalists and watchdogs were blocked from seeing them, all in the name of protecting reputations. But many saw it differently: as a shield for those in power.

Just recently, Ombudsman Remulla reversed that policy, restoring access. But the message lingered: when it comes to accountability, silence wasn’t just a slip—it was starting to look like a system.

And when silence becomes a system, the people are left out of their own democracy.

Ombudsman Crispin Remulla on reopening SALNs to public

The Flood Control Scandal: When Secrecy Drowns Us

And now, as floodwaters rise and billions in ghost projects are exposed, the cost of secrecy becomes painfully clear. The flood control scandal—ghost projects, substandard infrastructure, and missing accountability—isn’t just about corruption. It’s about betrayal.

We are wading through waist-deep water while billions meant to protect us are lost in silence. While the Church reads names aloud to protect a marriage, our government buries names to protect its own.

This isn’t just a metaphor. It’s a warning.

A Teaching Moment

I’m not here to judge the legal merits of the case. That’s for the courts and the lawyers. But as a citizen—and as someone who still believes in the power of truth—I think we deserve better.

If the Church can announce weddings, surely the government can announce reversals.

If priests can read names aloud in front of the whole congregation, surely public officials can explain their decisions to the people who pay their salaries.

In the end, transparency isn’t just a legal requirement. It’s a moral one. It’s what turns power into service. And silence into trust.

The banns of marriage aren’t just about love. They’re a reminder that truth, too, deserves to be spoken aloud.

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MIRROR POLITICS: WHAT THE DUTERTE-GO CASES SAY ABOUT THE FILIPINO VOTER

Change doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it arrives quietly—like a shift in the wind, a scent that signals something long overdue.

This week, that signal came in the form of two high-profile filings. One accuses VP Sara Duterte of misusing confidential funds. Tindig Pilipinas convenor Francis “Kiko” Aquino Dee asserted:

“Nanawagan po kami sa Ombudsman na seryosohin po yung mga kaso laban kay Sara Duterte, imbestigahan yung articles of impeachment dahil hindi nga naganap yung inaasahan nating trial sa Senado.”

The other targets Senator Bong Go and former President Duterte for billions in anomalous infrastructure contracts. Former Senator Trillanes’ complaint stated:

“Respondent Go clearly took advantage of his public position as an aide and alter-ego of Respondent Duterte, in cornering illicitly billions upon billions of public infrastructure projects in favor of the unqualified sole proprietorship registered in the names of his father and brother, thus, unduly enriching himself and members of his immediate family.”

Francis "Kiko" Aquino Dee                            Former Senator Antonio Trillanes

Both cases landed squarely at the feet of the Office of the Ombudsman. And suddenly, the question isn’t just what will happen next? It’s who will dare to act?

Remulla’s Rise: A Sequel Worth Watching

In my previous ATABAY piece, “A Tale of Two Investigations: Why ICI Must Go & Ombudsman Must Lead,” I wrote:

“[Crispin] Remulla isn’t just restoring the Ombudsman’s teeth. He’s sharpening them.”

That line still holds. But now, the stakes have sharpened too. He spelled out:

“Noong naging DOJ Secretary ako, ang unang-una kong tinanggal, weaponization ng batas…it will not be weaponized, sisiguraduhin ko sa lahat ‘yan. Wala akong sisinuhin." 

Ombudsman Crispin Remulla

Remulla, once seen as a quiet reformer, now stands as the unlikely protagonist in a civic drama that could define a generation. He reopened the Pharmally case. He ordered the release of SALNs. He poked at ties others tiptoe around. And now, he faces two litmus tests that will either cement his legacy—or expose the limits of institutional courage.

These aren’t just cases. They’re crossroads.

The Litmus of Power

The VP Duterte case was frozen—first by the Senate, then by the Supreme Court. A tandem of omission. The Bong Go case languished under the previous DOJ and Ombudsman, buried beneath layers of proximity and protection.

But now, both have resurfaced. And Remulla, whether he asked for it or not, has become the face of a new civic reckoning.

We may call him the white knight in shining armor riding a whiff of fresh air. But I say: let’s not romanticize too soon. Let’s watch what he does when the spotlight fades and the pressure mounts.

This isn’t about heroism. It’s about resolve.

Mirror—Not Just a Mandate

And yet, these cases are not only litmus tests for Remulla. They are mirrors—held up not just to the accused, but to us.

If the entrails of these investigations reveal systemic misuse of public funds, abuse of power, or entrenched corruption, they won’t just implicate Duterte and Go. They will reflect the kind of electorate that elevated them.

Recent surveys, if we believe them, show VP Duterte leading the pack for the 2028 presidential race, while Senator Go topped the 2022 senatorial elections. These aren’t just political snapshot and reality—they’re civic fingerprints. They tell us who we trusted and who we believed.

So, when the full weight of the investigation surfaces—when contracts are traced, funds clarified, decisions examined—we must pause and ask: What do these truths reflect about us?

Were we silent by choice? Persuaded by proximity, personality, or propaganda? Or had we grown too tired, too indifferent—allowing ourselves to normalize what now stands exposed?

The answers may be uncomfortable. But they will be honest—and they will matter.

In the end, the Ombudsman’s crusade is not just about restoring institutional integrity. It’s about reawakening civic conscience. And if these cases are pursued with rigor and resolve, they may do more than punish the wrongdoing. They may provoke a reckoning—a moment where the Filipino voter looks in the mirror and asks: What kind of leaders did we elect?

Good or bad, the reflection will be ours to bear.

The Flood Beneath the Surface

These cases arrive in the wake of the flood control scandal—a sprawling tale of overpriced contracts, ghost projects, and systemic rot. It’s no coincidence. Corruption, like water, finds the cracks. And when institutions fail to seal them, it seeps into everything.

That’s why I believe the Ombudsman must lead—not just legally, but morally. In a country where impunity is often the default, accountability must be the exception that proves we still care.

A Quiet Ferocity, A Loud Hope

Remulla’s strength lies not in spectacle, but in coolness. He doesn’t grandstand. He acts.

And in that quiet ferocity, there’s a loud hope—a hope that maybe, the system can still work. That the Ombudsman can be more than a title. That the white horse isn’t just a metaphor.

But hope, like justice, must be tested. And these two cases—VP Sara’s CIFs and Bong Go’s billions—are the test.

In Closing

We don’t need Remulla to be flawless. We need him to be fearless—and principled.

Let him face the storm. Let him show that the Ombudsman’s office can still be a place where truth is not only spoken, but enforced.

If he does, it won’t just be a welcome change. It will be the first breath of a system learning to live again.

And we, too, must choose to breathe.

Content & editing put together in collaboration with Bing Microsoft AI-powered Co-pilot

Head collage photos courtesy of Bing image creator; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of Faith Argosino & Noy Morcoso/Inquirer.net, Politiko, Freepik, Arind Datta on X, Philstar.com, & Shutterstock