WHEN GOD SENT THE RAIN: THE FLOOD EXPOSED THE UNITEAM

No warning. No mercy.

It wasn’t just rain—it was reckoning. The water rose like judgment, seeping through every crack and memory. It didn’t merely soak—it exposed. It sickened. It outraged.

And while families fled barefoot through flooded streets, headlines screamed of another kind of flood—one made not of water, but of cash.

“Piles of cash normal at DPWH-Bulacan office, says former official.” (Philippine Daily Inquirer)

Bundles of money, casually stacked on tables, were described as routine at the Department of Public Works and Highways in Bulacan’s first engineering district. During a congressional hearing on the flood control scandal, a former official admitted:

“Your honor, I do not know who will receive it. We were just ordered to fix the money. This amount is for this, send here, this is allocated for someone. That’s it—we just segregate the money.”

Meanwhile, Philippine Star reported that public works officials laundered hundreds of millions of pesos in kickbacks from ghost or substandard flood control projects by placing them as bets at casinos. Senator Panfilo Lacson explained:

“How so? They would exchanged cash into chips, and if they lose a little, they would go to the cashier to make cash-out and declare the chips they had exchanged to be winnings. Smart? Your guess at this point is as good as mine.”

Citing casino records from 2023 to 2025, Lacson alleged that DPWH district engineer Henry Alcantara, one of the Bulacan Group of Contractors (BGC Boys), in his casino visits, converted P1.4 billion cash to chips, and converted chips to cash worth P997.8 million.

“Yes, you heard it right,” Lacson added. “B as in billion.”

Bulacan Group of Contractors

Now, hold that image—of cash sorted like cargo in a warehouse of impunity, and of cash played in chips laundered in a “casino spree”—against this scene:

Maribel stood in her doorway, watching the river creep up the street. The rain had been falling for days. Now the floodwaters reached her knees. She knew it was time to leave.

“There was no warning from the government,” said Maribel, 49, a mother of six. “We just looked outside and realized we didn’t have any more time.”

Soaked. Overcrowded. Cramped living space

They left on foot—barefoot, soaked, carrying what little they could. Turned away from one shelter, her family found space at an overcrowded elementary school. Every classroom was full. They ended up in a room with six others, laying out thin mats on the floor of their cramped new living space.”

(From When the River Overflowed by Jennifer Anne Mendoza, CARE)

As the waters receded, something darker surfaced: a nearly P2-trillion scandal involving ghost flood control projects, budget insertions, and a web of corruption misappropriated over 15 years—reaching deep into the halls of Congress and the Executive branch.

And then God sent a different kind of rain. Purpose-driven. Unrelenting. Revealing.

A Pact of Power Revisited: The Rise and Fall of the UniTeam

Looking back, the UniTeam was hailed as a symbol of unity. But beneath the campaign slogans and choreographed rallies lay a Faustian bargain—a marriage of convenience between two dynasties long shadowed by allegations of plunder and impunity.

• Bongbong, heir to a dictatorship that looted the country billions.

• Sara, daughter of a strongman whose war on drugs left thousand dead, and whose family’s grip on Davao politics remains ironclad.

The UniTeam, once a fortress, had become a battlefield. It cracked, and ultimately, collapsed.

The Flood as Revelation: A Spiritual Perspective

“They tried their best to hide their corruption. And then God sent the rain.”

These words, shared by my Facebook friend Mils, in response to my ATABAY piece The Mirror and the Rolls-Royce, now read like prophecy.

What began as literal floods—devastating homes, displacing families—has become something more: a divine deluge. Not just water, but revelation. Not just destruction, but exposure.

The rain unveiled what was hidden. It washed over what was defiled. It refused to be ignored. It marks the breaking of a pact built on illusion. It signals the shattering of a narrative long sustained by silence. It, unmistakably, the beginning of the reckoning.

What If The UniTeam Never Broke?

Imagine if Bongbong and Sara still stood side by side today—smiling for cameras, trading compliments in press releases, their alliance unshaken by scandal, their dynasties still dancing in step.

Imagine if the floodwaters that swallowed homes and livelihoods were met, not with repentance, but with rehearsed deflection. If the cries of families wading through waist-deep water were drowned out by the clamor of political theater.

Imagine if the pact held.

The Fortress of Denial

In this imagined present, the UniTeam remains unbroken—its walls reinforced not by trust, but by a pact of silence. And perhaps that silence is strategic. For if either dared to speak, it would trigger the old proverb: the pot calling the kettle black—and both, unmistakably, covered in soot. Yuck! In public eye, it would be nothing short of mutually assured destruction.

So, the flood control scandal is downplayed as isolated. Ghost projects are brushed off as technical errors. Contractors are recast as misunderstood.

Investigations are launched, yes—but only to pacify, not to prosecute. The real culprits—their loyal foot soldiers—remain unnamed, untouched, unbothered.

And when one dynasty is accused, the other rushes to defend. When one is exposed, the other distracts. Projection becomes their shield, deflection their strategy.

The fortress holds—not because it is strong, but because both sides fear what its collapse might reveal.

Toward 2028: A Race Without Reckoning, A Rain Without Cleansing

As 2028 looms, the UniTeam prepares its next act.

Rumors swirl of a role reversal—Sara for President, Bongbong as kingmaker. Their campaign slogan? Tuloy ang Pagbangon—a promise of continuity, a revival of the rise they declared in 2022.

But beneath the billboards and jingles, the nation trembles. The flood control scandal has cracked open Pandora’s box: budget insertions, contractor monopolies, dynastic collusion.

The headlines grow louder. The protests more frequent. The bishops more vocal. And yet the UniTeam presses on—unrepentant, undeterred.

In this imagined future, the 2028 race becomes a referendum not on vision—but on memory.

Will the people remember the deluge? Will they recall the barefoot flight of families like Maribel, whose suffering was met with silence? Or will they be “mabubudol ulit”—lulled by the illusion of unity, seduced by the choreography of power?

And if the pact holds, what then?

The rain may come again—but not to cleanse. It will be diverted. Denied. Politicized.

The UniTeam may survive, but the nation will not heal. The alliance may endure, but the people will remain submerged—in corruption, in grief, in the slow erosion of hope.

This is the danger of forgetting. This is the cost of silence. And this is the storm we must not sleep through.

A Blessing in Disguise: Invitation to Renewal

The collapse of the UniTeam is a blessing in disguise. It reminds us that no alliance built on deceit can endure. That dynasties—no matter how entrenched—are not immune to truth. That when it rains, it pours—and sometimes, that pouring is heaven’s way of saying: Enough.

Let this be a moment not merely of outrage, but of awakening.

Let citizens reclaim the public square.

Let truth be spoken, even when inconvenient.

Let integrity be restored, even when costly.

And let us remember:

When God sends the rain, He is not merely punishing.

He is preparing the ground for something new.

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THE GHOSTS OF OUR DEMOCRACY: WHY THE BEST WON'T RUN

Let me say it plainly: the kind of leaders our country desperately needs—those with integrity, competence, and a genuine heart for service—are choosing not to run. And they’re telling us early.

“Ngayon pa lang sinasabi ko na sa inyo: 2028, hindi ako tatakbo,” declared Pasig Mayor Vico Sotto during his inauguration.

Former Vice President Leni Robredo, through her longtime spokesperson Atty. Barry Gutierrez confirmed the same: no plans for 2028.

And so, the million-dollar question echoes louder than ever: Why?

I believe the answer lies in two ghosts haunting our democracy: the election process and the electorate itself.

The Ghost of the Process: The Day After

Let me take you back to the day after the 2022 presidential election. I wrote a piece titled An Engineer’s Inkling on the Election Issue. It wasn’t a political rant—it was a technical reflection. I’m an engineer, after all. And what I saw in the number didn’t add up.

Columnist Rigoberto Tiglao in the Manila Times had predicted, with uncanny precision, a 16 million vote margin between Bongbong Marcos Jr. and Leni Robredo—seventeen days before the election. That’s not just foresight. That’s mathematical clairvoyance.

When I checked the actual tallies from Philippine Star and CNN Philippines, the numbers matched. It was a feat that involved three unknowns:

• Total number of voters

• Marcos Jr. voters

• Robredo voters

Tiglao even broke it down:

• 5 million soft Robredo votes flipping

• 1 million command votes defecting

• 6 million joining bandwagon

• 4 million collapsing (whatever that means)

Total: 16 million

Spectacular? Yes. But, also suspicious.

Then came the viral video—a simulated mini-election showing how a transparency server could be hacked. I consulted an IT expert friend. He confirmed: Yes, it could be done. The source code could be altered to follow a fixed pattern. 

And then came the IP address that shouldn’t exist: 192.168.0.2. A private node. Untraceable. Yet it had transmitted nearly 10% of Metro Manila’s results—plus Cavite, Batangas, and others—within the first hour after polls closed.

Eliseo Rio, former DICT Secretary, laid it bare:

• 39, 512 precincts transmitted 20.6 million votes in just 53 minutes.

• That’s 746 ERs per minute, or 12.4 per second.

• A world record.

• And yet, in second hour, rate dropped to 446 ERs per minute.

• Comelec couldn’t explain the sudden slowdown.

This wasn’t just a glitch. It was choreography. A digital ballet performed at impossible speed—then abruptly slowed. And no one asked why. Ugh.

The Ghost of the Electorate: When Memory Fails and Popularity Prevails

 Now let’s talk about the other ghost—the electorate.

CLTG Builders, owned by Bong Go’s father, bagged P816 million worth of infrastructure projects in 2017 through joint ventures with the Discayas. By the end of that year, their contracts ballooned to over P3 billion.

Despite the optics, despite the proximity to power, despite the unanswered questions— the voters raised his hand. In the last senatorial race, Bong Go, despite controversies surrounding CLTG Builders and its billion-peso contracts in Davao, emerged as the number one senator.

This isn’t just about one candidate. It’s about a pattern:

• Where name recall trumps track record

• Where shenanigans are shrugged off as strategy

• Where the electorate forgets faster than the system can fail

When Waters Rise, So Must Accountability

The recent flood control corruption scandal has only deepened the wound. Senator Lacson’s exposé revealed ghost projects, kickbacks, and budget insertions that siphoned billions from public coffers.

Bong Go’s CLTG case foreshadowed this. The mechanisms were the same:

• Contractor monopolies

• Political patronage

• Opaque bidding process

And the consequences? Flooded streets, ruined livelihoods, and the haunting knowledge that P1.9 trillion may have been misappropriated over 15 years.

Ghosts’ Fingerprints – Identical is the Clue

Eerily, the ghosts left behind fingerprints—uncannily identical, unmistakably deliberate.

In the 2022 presidential elections, those fingerprints were digital. Columnist Jarius Bondoc in the Philippine Star revealed the vote tallies in several Manila precincts that bore a disturbing pattern.

The rest of the presidential candidates received similarly uniform vote counts—an absurdity that defies statistical logic.

“Statistically impossible,” said former DICT Secretary Eliseo Rio. “It could only have been done by manipulation.” He pointed out that even seasoned public figures like Senator Panfilo Lacson and boxing icon-turned-senator Manny Pacquiao received zero votes in dozens of precincts—an outcome that strains credulity.

“Anyone with average IQ will easily see fraud in the identical votes,” Rio added. ‘Did someone arbitrarily assign numbers to the five [presidential candidates]?”

The implication was chilling: not just error, but orchestration.

Fast forward to the present flood control scandal, and the fingerprints reappear—this time, manually etched into public records. Investigative journalist Iris Gonzales, also writing for The Philippine Star, exposed a similar pattern in her column Splitting Contracts: The Secret to Corruption.

She obtained a copy of the DPWH’s Post-Contract Award Disclosure for January 2024, detailing 83 projects under the Bulacan First District Engineer’s Office. What she found was startling.

Six projects under Riverbank Protection Structures along Balagtas River were each priced at P96.499 million. Ten more projects were identically tagged at P77.199 million. And across the full list of 83, the amounts followed a distinct, repetitive pattern.

The symmetry was too perfect. The numbers too neat. The fingerprints too familiar.

Whether etched in code or inked in contracts, the ghosts of corruption leave behind the same calling card: identical figures that defy randomness and insult reason.

And so, who would dare to run?

When Silence Speaks Louder Than Campaigns

Vico Sotto and Leni Robredo are stepping back not because they lack courage. They are stepping aside because the system itself seems unwilling to meet courage halfway. When elections become theater and governance a game of patronage, even the most principled contenders must ask: Is it worth entering a race where the rules are rigged and the referees are silent?

Their refusal to run is not surrender—it is a mirror. It reflects the brokenness we’ve tolerated, the shortcuts we’ve normalized, and the trust we’ve crumpled.

If we truly want leaders who serve rather than perform, who build rather than brand, then we must do more than lament their absence. We must earn their presence

The election process, haunted by the ghosts of 2022, offers no assurance of fairness. The electorate, meanwhile, has shown a troubling tolerance for shenanigans—elevating figures like Bong Go to the top of the senatorial race despite the billion-peso CLTG Builders controversy.

This is not cynicism. It is realism. And for leaders who value integrity, realism is a compass—not a cage.

Their decision not to run is both a silent protest and a quiet handwriting on the wall. It tells us, with sobering clarity, that unless we confront the ghosts—unless we demand transparency, accountability, and discernment—our democracy will remain a stage for spectacle, not substance.

A Quiet Reckoning

If you’ve read this far, thank you. This piece was not written to provoke, but to pause. Not to accuse, but to awaken.

I write not as a pundit, but as a citizen—an engineer by training, a storyteller by calling, and a Filipino by heart—who still believes that truth, once spoken with sincerity, can ripple outward and restore what’s been lost.

The stories we’ve traced—from digital fingerprints to flood-soaked contracts—are not just about systems. They are about us. About what we tolerate, what we forget, and what we dare to hope.

The stepping back of our most capable leaders is not the end of the story. It is a challenge to write a better one.

So, I invite you—not just to reflect, but to respond. In your own way. In your own time. Whether through conversation, conviction, or quiet resolve.

Democracy is not a spectacle we watch. It is a legacy we shape.

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THE MIRROR AND THE ROLLS-ROYCE: WHAT THE DISCAYA SCANDAL REVEALS ABOUT US

 

It began with a showroom – gleaming chrome, imported leather, and over 40 luxury vehicles parked like trophies in a private museum. Rolls-Royce. Bentley. Cadillac. Porsche. Lincoln. The kind of excess that would make even the most jaded billionaire blink. Estimated total price tag: between half to P1 billion - equivalent to around 1,250 Angat Buhay classrooms.

But this wasn’t Dubai or Beverly Hills. This was Pasig City. And the couple behind the wheel? Curlee and Sarah Discaya – construction contractors turned media darlings, now under investigation for billions in government flood control contracts.

The Discaya scandal is not just about wealth. It’s about the image of wealth. And more disturbingly, it’s about how that image is marketed, consumed, and weaponized in Philippine politics.

Sarah Discaya’s transformation – from receptionist to mogul to mayoral aspirant – was no accident. Her televised interviews, dripping with opulence and curated charm, were not mere vanity pieces. They were strategic branding campaigns. A calculated rollout of a political product designed to seduce the Filipino electorate. And the message was clear: “Look at what we have. You could have this too.”

Damaged Culture

But what does it say about us, the viewers, the voters, the citizens, when such displays are not met with outrage, but admiration? When the Rolls-Royce becomes a metaphor for success, and not a question mark for scrutiny?

This is where the mirror turns. The Discayas may be the ones flaunting, but we are the ones watching. And in that reflection, we see the bitter truth: that in our political marketplace, competence and integrity often take a backseat to spectacle and seduction. That candidates are sold not by their platforms, but by their possessions. That the Filipino voter, as a collective, is still vulnerable to the glitter of ill-gotten wealth.

It is this cultural vulnerability that James Fallows diagnosed decades ago in his essay A Damaged Culture: A New Philippines?

Fallows’ words echo hauntingly in the present. Despite our abundant resources and resilient spirit, we remain trapped in cycles of dysfunction – not because we lack talent or opportunity, but because our cultural habits too often reward the wrong virtues. In a society where spectacle often eclipses substance, where proximity to power and wealth is mistaken for merit, the roots of our national malaise run deep.

This diagnosis finds unsettling affirmation in more recent events. Shortly after Bongbong Marcos’s landslide victory in the 2022 presidential election, columnist Gwyne Dyer of the Bangkok Post posed a piercing question as the banner of his piece: “What’s wrong with the Philippines?” He wrote:

“Bongbong Marcos didn’t just win the presidential election in the Philippines… He won it by a two-to-one landslide, despite the fact that he is the extremely entitled son of a former president who stole at least US$10 billion and a mother who spent the loot party on the world’s most extensive collection of designers shoes (3,000 pairs).”

Dyer’s words, like Fallows’, are not merely critiques – they are mirrors. They reflect a painful truth: that in our political culture, memory is often short, accountability elusive, and charisma can eclipse character.

The landslide victory, much like the Discaya spectacle, reveals a troubling pattern – where the Filipino electorate, seduced by legacy or luxury, overlooks the deeper questions of integrity, history, and consequence. It is a pattern that is now resurfacing itself in plain sight, staining the present with the residue of unlearned lessons – a symptom of deeper cultural decay.

But this is not a call to despair. It is a call to discernment.

Teaching Moment

The Discaya affair is a teaching moment. A chance to ask: What kind of society do we want to be? What kind of leaders do we deserve? And what kind of voters must we become?

Let us not merely condemn the scandal. Let us confront our culture that enables it. Let us hold up the mirror – not to shame, but to awaken.

Because the real luxury we should aspire to is not in Rolls-Royces or mansions, but in a nation where truth is prized, integrity is honored, and the Filipino soul is no longer for sale.

Some call it “a stroke of luck.” Others, with reverent awe, call it “God’s mysterious way” of intervening for the Filipino people. Whatever name we give it, the triumph of Vico Sotto over the Discaya brand of politics was more than an electoral win – it was a quiet miracle.

Young, idealistic, and untainted by the machinery of traditional power, Sotto stands as a rare anomaly in the Philippine political landscape: a public servant whose integrity is not a costume but a conviction.

But let us not be lulled by this singular victory. For while Pasig chose light, the rest of the nation remains vulnerable to shadows.

Imagine this: in other provinces, Discaya-like figures – armed with charm, wealth, and media-crafted personas – could have easily outshone run-of-the-mill opponents. They might now be seated in city halls, signing off on inflated, if not “ghost” flood control projects, laundering public funds through luxury car dealerships, and turning government offices into personal showrooms.

The corruption crisis would not only persist – it would metastasize.

Torchbearer

And so, Sotto’s win is not just a local triumph. It is a divine intervention. A manna from Heaven. In Pasig, light overcame darkness. The electorate became a microcosm of the radical transformation our country so desperately needs. What happened there is not merely political – it is prophetic. A lamp unto our nation’s feet. A light onto our people’s path.

It we, as a nation, can learn from Pasig – if we can choose substance over spectacle, integrity over indulgence – then there is hope. Not just for cleaner governance, but for a cultural awakening. The Discaya scandal may have held up a mirror, but Pasig held up a torch.

Let us follow its flame.

 Car-free Sunday in Pasig

Postscript

The Discaya scandal may fade from headlines, but the questions it raises must not. In every election, we are given a choice – not just between candidates - but between values. May we learn to choose not what dazzles the eyes, but what dignifies the soul. May Pasig’s light not remain a flicker in the dark, but a spark that kindles a nation’s revival.

Final Word

This piece is offered not as an indictment, but as an invitation – to reflect, to awaken, and to hope. May this reflection stir something within you – not just about politics, but about the kind of nation we are becoming, and the kind of people we are called to be.

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FLOODED BY CORRUPTION: THE BLUEPRINT FOR INTEGRITY AND REFORM

 

There are floods we expect – monsoons, typhoons, rivers that swell with rain. And then there are floods we never see coming – those that rise from within, from the cracks in our institutions, from the silence of complicity, from the betrayal of public trust.

The recent exposé on the flood control scandal has left the nation stunned. Senator Panfilo Lacson’s speech, Flooded Gates of Corruption, didn’t just drop a bombshell – it opened a dam.

He revealed how billions in public funds were siphoned off through ghost projects, coded kickbacks, and political insertions. From 2011 to 2023, P1.9 trillion was poured into flood control. And yet, only 40% was left for the project, the rest of the bulk vanished – not into the river, but into pockets.

The names may yet be hidden, but the pattern is clear. Projects with identical costs. Reseta fees imposed by engineers. Parking fees paid to lawmakers. Funders demanding 25% of the budget.

Senator Panfilo Lacson stunned the nation with his "Floodgates of Corruption" speech

DPWH – The Solution Starter

And at the center of the storm? The Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH) – the very department tasked with protecting us from floods.

Let’s not mince words. If we’re looking for the solution starter to the scandalous complex problem, we must first crack open the Pandora’s Box at the DPWH.

It is the institutional crux, the root of the rot. Secretary Bonoan himself admitted that central audits are sporadic, often reliant on field reports and photos that may be falsified.

The concrete has cracked. The foundations are hollow. 

So, what do we do?

We start where the cracks run deepest. We open the box – not to unleash chaos, but to confront it. We expose the mechanisms, reform the culture, and rebuild the trust.

DPWH Secretary Manuel Bonoan

Easily said than done? Maybe. Here’s where the story takes a turn – not toward despair, but toward hope.

Let’s say you work for a big government institution. Bit by bit, you advance in your career. You carry a comfortable salary, build a retirement nest egg, and settle into the rhythm of public service. Then one day, you stumbled upon something terribly wrong – an abuse of power, a misuse of funds, a betrayal of the very mission you serve.

Do you make a big stink and endanger your job? Or do you look the other way, knowing full well that the organization will resist change, and that speaking out might leave you flattened – road-kill on the highway of institutional self-preservation?

Bunny’s Story – A Template of Courage and Hope

This was the direful situation confronting Bunnatine “Bunny” Greenhouse in her story featured in the book “Your America: Democracy’s Local Heroes.” She helped bring accountability and transparency to a giant government agency, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. As a top civilian inside the agency, she became a whistleblower and waged a personal battle, refusing to back down or quit.

It was in the 90s when Bunny became the top civilian procurement officer at the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers – the first woman and the first African American to do so. In her time at the agency, she would oversee over $23 billion worth of contracts, approving and signing all procurements and contracts, each one valued at over $10 million.

Grew up in a poor family, she wasn’t a rebel. She was a steward. A career public servant who simply didn’t buy deceit. Thinking of that, I know it would scare you out of your wits to imagine following in Bunny’s footsteps.

But, that’s precisely why Bunny’s story matters. Because she did what most of us fear to do today. She stood up. She spoke out. And she didn’t flinch.

Bunnatine "Bunny" Greenhouse

Twin Personal "Bodyguards"

You may wonder: Did she have a backer? Yes - two.

First, her family. The discipline she learned at home left a lasting imprint.

“My mother always said lying is in the intention, not the content,” Bunny recalled. In her household, silence in the face of untruth was never acceptable. Truth wasn’t just taught – it was expected.

Second, her faith. Bunny is a deeply spiritual woman. She believed that God had a purpose for her life and she embraced it with conviction.

“I was to be a fisher of men,” she said – echoing the moment when Jesus called two fishermen to follow Him. Her courage was not self-made; it was anchored in calling.

So where did Bunny find her support?

Not from institutional shields or legal armor, but from a network of truth-tellers – investigative journalists, members of Congress, and outraged citizens. The whistleblower speaks. The media amplifies. Congress investigates. And together – forming what she called the information triangle - they generate enough moral and political leverage to shake the system.

It's a model that works – when the institutions are willing to listen.

Oops – Our Philippine Slip Is Showing

But here in the Philippines, the cracks run deep.

Congress, the very body meant to investigate, appears entangled in the flood control scandal itself. So where do we turn when the watchdog is part of the mess?

Perhaps to alternative mechanisms, like Senator Tito Sotto’s proposed Independent People’s Commission – a body outside the usual political machinery, designed to probe with impartiality and public trust.

Not to mention that unlike in the U.S., we still lack a comprehensive Whistleblower Protection Act. It’s been filed multiple times in Congress, yet remains unpassed – gathering dust while courage goes unrewarded and unprotected.

Yes, there are fragments: Republic Acts, agency memos, administrative orders. But they offer only partial protection – a patchwork of promise in a landscape that demands bold reforms.

A Few Good Men and Women

As the old saying goes: Sunlight is the best medicine. Bringing truth into the light makes it harder for sleaze to survive.

Yes, Bunny paid the price. But, in doing so, she became a living answer to the question we all ask in moments of moral crisis.

Can it be done? Yes. It can.

And if Bunny could do it inside the 35,000-employee U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, then someone can do it inside DPWH with around 20,000 work force. Surely, there’s a few good men and women in our flood-ridden DPWH bureaucracy who can choose conscience over complicity.

Let Bunny’s story be more than inspiration. Let it be a template for:

Engineers who refuse to falsify reports

Auditors who speak up when numbers don’t add up

Citizens who use platforms like Sumbong sa Pangulo to report anomalies

Lawmakers who choose reform over reward.

Change Begins in Us

Let Bunny's story be a striking answer to every doubting Thomas who asks, “Can it be done?”

Yes, it can. Yes, it must. Yes, it begins with us.

Because behind every ghost project is a real family displaced. Behind every padded budget is a child wading through floodwaters to school. Behind every silence is a soul waiting in justice.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves… defend the rights of the poor and needy.” Proverbs 31:8-9

Let us be the echo that refuses to be drowned. Let us be the whistle in the wind, the voice in the storm, the hand that rebuilds not just dikes – but dignity.

For in the end, the most important public work is not what we construct with concrete and steel, but what we uphold with truth.

To The Few Good Men And Women

This piece is dedicated to every soul who has ever stood alone in the face of wrongdoing – to the quiet whistleblowers, the honest engineers, the truth-telling auditors, to the public servants who still believe that service is sacred.

To those who have nothing to do with deceit, who documented what others erased, who endured demotion, ridicule, and silent treatment – but never surrendered their voice.

To the Bunny among us, and to the ones still waiting for courage to rise.

May this be your reminder that one voice can crack concrete, and one act of integrity can drain the flood.

Let us build again – not just with steel and stone, but with truth, honor, and the kind of hope that refuses to drown.

Your Voice Matters

If this reflection has stirred something in you – a memory, a conviction, a story wanting to be told – share it.

Whether you’ve witnessed integrity in action, stood your ground in quiet resistance, or simply carry a hope for a better nation – your voice matter.

Tell your story. Speak your truth.

We can be the flood that cleanses, the dike that holds firm, and the stream where justice flows.

Keep the conversation alive.

Keep the courage burning.

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