LET THE SUNSHINE IN: ICI MUST OPEN ITS HEARING TO PUBLIC

 

I was young idealist when the soaring harmonies of The 5th Dimension’s medley “Aquarius/Let The Sunshine In” first filled the airwaves—and my imagination.

It was more than just a song, it was an anthem for a generation yearning for clarity, compassion, and cosmic alignment. The Age of Aquarius, they called it—a time of harmony and understanding. And for many of us coming of age in the late 1960s, its lyrics felt like prophecy wrapped in melody.

“Let the sunshine in” wasn’t just a refrain—it became a quiet mantra, echoing in my mind whenever I wandered back through the corridors of memory.

Fast forward to today, I find myself humming that same line again. But this time, it’s not nostalgia that stirs it—it’s necessity. That same line— “Let the sunshine in”—now carries a different weight. It’s no longer just a memory from my youth, it’s a rallying cry for the present.

In our country now, we’re drowning, not just in floodwaters, but in the murky depths of public works gone wrong. And while the Independent Commission for Infrastructure (ICI) was created to clean house, it’s doing so behind closed doors.

ICI was born out of public frustration—12,000 complaints in less than a month—all pointing to ghost projects, padded contracts, and flood control systems. That’s not a whisper. That’s a roar. It was the people who demanded answers. So why, now that the hearings have begun, are we being shut out?

ICI officials say they won’t livestream hearings to avoid “trial by publicity.” But let’s be honest: that’s not just tone-deaf—it’s a betrayal of the very public that gave the ICI its mandate.

Radical Transparency

Transparency isn’t a luxury. It’s a necessity. And history agrees.

Kofi Annan once said: “If corruption is a disease, transparency is a central part of its treatment.”

The Dalai Lama nailed it: “A lack of transparency results in distrust and a deep sense of insecurity.”

Jim Yong Kim, former World Bank president, called for “Radical Transparency,” insisting there’s no going back.

And Justice Louis Brandeis? He gave us the line that should be etched into every government building.

So let the sunshine in. Not just metaphorically. Literally. Open the doors. Turn on the cameras. Let the people see what’s being done in their name, with their taxes, for their future.

This isn’t just about infrastructure. It’s about trust. And trust, like truth, thrives in the light.

"Perception Is Real"

That need for transparency becomes even more pressing now that Andres Reyes Jr., former Supreme Court Associate Justice, has been appointed to lead the ICI. His name carries a weight of perception—one shaped by a history seen by many as favoring the powerful over the public. As Imelda Marcos once said, “Perception is real.” And in matters of public accountability, perception can be as potent as fact.

Which brings me back to that familiar refrain— “Let the sunshine in." It still echoes in my mind. But today, it’s no longer a nostalgic melody from a bygone era. It’s a demand. A call to action in a time when light must pierce through the shadows of secrecy.

Yet here we are, the ICI stands at a crossroads with hearings held behind closed doors, livestream denied, and the public left peering through frosted glasses. The irony is hard to miss: a commission born from public outrage now shield its proceedings from public view.

This is where the conversation must shift—to practical reform. If we truly want the ICI to succeed, we must ensure it doesn’t just investigate in the dark. It must operate in the light.

Let’s begin with the urgent: opening its hearings to the public. And then, let’s look ahead—to the long-term strategies that can transform the ICI from a reactive body into a resilient institution. For that, we turn to a proven model: India’s Central Vigilance Commission.

Building A Stronger ICI For The Long Haul

Now that we’ve tackled the urgent need for transparency, let’s talk about the long game. More than just a one-time cleanup crew—the ICI must be a lasting institution that truly reforms how we build and spend—it needs structural muscle.

And for that, we can take a page from India’s playbook. Their Central Vigilance Commission (CVC) has been around for decades, and while it’s not perfect, it’s a solid benchmark for what a mature, independent anti-corruption body can look like.

Here’s what we can learn—and what we should push for:

1. Make It Law, Not Just A Memo

Right now, the ICI exists because of an executive order. That’s like building a house on sand. We need Congress to pass legislation that gives the ICI statutory status—so it can’t be dissolved or defanged with a stroke of a pen.

Why it matters: Legal permanence means institutional independence. It protects the ICI from political winds and ensures it can do its job without fear or favor.

2. Protect The Whistleblowers

“Sumbong sa Pangulo” is a powerful tool—but it needs legal safeguards. We should push for a Whistleblower Protection Act that shields informants from retaliation, harassment, or career sabotage.

Why it matters. People won’t speak up if they feel exposed. Protection encourages truth-telling and builds a culture of accountability.

3. Shift From Reactive To Preventive

Right now, the ICI is focused on investigating past anomalies. That’s important—but we also need to prevent future ones. Let’s equip the ICI with a Preventive Vigilance Division that trains engineers, audits procurement systems, and flags red flags before they become scandals.

Why it matters. Prevention saves money, time, and public trust. It’s smarter to stop the leak than mop up the flood.

4. Give It Oversight Powers

The ICI should have the authority to supervise agencies like DPWH and COA when it comes to infrastructure spending. Think of it as a watchdog with a magnifying glass—not just barking, but inspecting.

Why it matters. Oversight ensures that the agencies implementing projects are held to the highest standards, not just audited after the fact.

5. Institutionalize Transparency

Transparency shouldn’t be optional—it should be baked into the system. Let’s push for a Public Infrastructure Dashboard where citizens can track projects, budgets, complaints, and resolutions in real time.

Why it matters. When people can see where their taxes go, they’re more likely to trust—and more empowered to speak up when things go wrong.

LET THE SUNSHINE Lead The Way

No less than President Bongbong Marcos said last year:

"Let the sunshine in, let the fresh air in... Our part in the government is to open it up. More ventilation. More sunshine. More fresh air. That, I think, is the best approach."

We’ve come too far—and sunk too deep—to settle for half-measures and closed doors. The ICI was born from the people’s cry for truth. It must now answer that cry not with silence, but with sunlight. Let the hearings be public. Let the reforms be bold. Let the institution be built to last.

This isn’t just about fixing roads or draining floods. It’s about restoring faith. It’s about proving that government can listen, act, and evolve. And it starts with one simple act: opening the curtains.

So, to our fellow taxpayers—let’s demand it. Let’s build it. 

Let the sunshine in.

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Head photo courtesy of Bing image creator; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of Dreamstime.com, Pexels, Facebook, www.whistleblowers.org. & Transparency International

THE OTHER RALLY: THE DUTERTE BRAND IN DECLINE

 

The air was thick with chants and conviction. Manila’s arteries pulsed with people—flags waving and fists raised. At Luneta, the crowd surged like a tide, a living monument of resistance. EDSA Shrine echoed with prayers and protest songs, a chorus of outrage and hope.

But just beyond the din, tucked behind the gates of Camp Aguinaldo, a different scene unfolded.

No roaring crowd. No swelling anthem. Just a handful of retired generals and a bunch of Duterte Diehard Supporters (DDS), their rally paling in comparison—quiet, awkward, and, truth be told, painfully underwhelming. It was the other rally. The one that didn’t quite fit. A square peg in a round hole.

It was supposedly to be a show of force. Instead, it became a symbol of disconnect.

Organized by retired military generals aligned with former President Rodrigo Duterte, the Camp Aguinaldo rally felt like out of sync with the national mood, tone-deaf to the public’s growing demand for genuine reform, and weighed down by the very privileges its organizers hoped to defend.

Anatomy of the Camp Aguinaldo Rally

Let’s break it down.

The rally was led by retired Armed Forces officers, many of whom had served under or supported Duterte.  Their message? Condemn corruption, call for President Bongbong Marcos Jr.’s resignation, and defend Vice President Sara Duterte from criticism.

But the turnout was dismal. “Nilangaw,” as we say in the local dialect. Compared to the mammoth crowds at Luneta and EDSA Shrine, Camp Aguinaldo looked like a forgotten corner of a party no one wanted to attend.

Even worse, tensions flared. A brawl broke out between DDS and anti-Duterte factions. Chants of “Marcos, Duterte walang pinagkaiba” echoed, challenging the very narrative the retired generals were trying to push.

Strategic Undertone: A Veiled Succession Play

Let’s not kid ourselves. The call for Bongbong to resign wasn’t just about corruption—it carried a strategic undertone.

In our political system, if the President steps down, the Vice President takes over. So, when pro-Duterte retired generals chant “Marcos resign!” while insisting that VP Sara Duterte is “different,” it’s hard not to see the succession play behind the curtain.

But the public didn’t bite. The rally’s failure to gain traction showed that Filipinos are no longer easily swayed by veiled endorsements or dynastic maneuvers. We’re asking harder questions now. We’re looking for substance, not slogans.

DDS "people power" rally at Camp Aguinaldo

The Pension Gap: A Silent Undercurrent

Here’s another reason why the rally flopped—and it’s personal.

During a family reunion, a teacher cousin met her retired general relative, who proudly shared his P200,000 monthly pension, lavish travels, and early retirement at 56. No contributions. Full benefits. All courtesy of the Military and Uniformed Personnel (MUP) system.

Compare that to the rest of us.

As a civil engineer, I belong to the SSS class of retirees averaging a measly monthly pension of P4,528. GSIS retirees fare slightly at P13,600. But none of us come close to the MUP average of P40,000—and certainly not to the elite tier of retired generals.

The gap isn’t just unfair. It’s unjust.

And it was built deliberately. As the Inquirer editorial pointed out, the system was designed “to reduce the chances that restive military officers would perhaps take affairs into their own hands and stage coup d’ etats.” Columnist Joel Ruiz Butuyan added that Duterte “doubled the base pay of active MUP’s, to reportedly endear himself with military and police personnel.”

In fact, the MUP pension package poses a fiscal challenge for the government and a burden for the taxpayers since it is unsustainable and unaffordable in the long run. Former Secretary of Finance Ben Diokno warned: an imminent government fiscal collapse will come about if no reforms are instituted.

So, when these same retirees call for political change, many of us see privileges, not principle.

Twin Damocles Swords Over VP Sara

VP Sara’s 2028 presidential ambition faces two looming threats:

1. Her father’s trial at The Hague for crimes against humanity—a global reckoning for the drug war that defines his presidency.

Today’s headline—“ICC details Duterte charges: murder, attempted murder across PH”—rubs salt in the gaping wound. It tells of the International Criminal Court having released the summary and details of the charges filed against her father.

2. Her own impeachment threat, stemming from allegations of misused confidential funds.

These aren’t just legal issues. They’re symbols of a shifting political tide. The Duterte brand, once formidable, is now tainted by international scrutiny and domestic fatigue.

A Shift in Political Discourse

What the Camp Aguinaldo rally failed to grasp is that the conversation in the political landscape is changing.

We’re moving away from personality-driven politics. We’re demanding policy, transparency, and fairness. The pension gap, the Hague trial, the impeachment buzz—they’re all part of a larger reckoning.

Filipinos are waking up. We’re no longer content with being spectators. We want accountability. We want reform. And we’re not afraid to call a spade a spade—calling out privilege, even when it wears a uniform.

When Power Misses The Pulse

The Camp Aguinaldo rally was billed as a show of strength. What it revealed instead was a profound disconnect—a cautionary tale of how power, when divorced from public sentiment, becomes a hollow echo.

In a time when Filipinos are demanding transparency, equity, and genuine reform, the old playbook of veiled ambitions and elite entitlements no longer holds sway. The spectacle of privilege parading as principle fell flat, not because people weren’t listening—but because they’ve learned to listen more critically.

Real change doesn’t trickle down from podiums or parade grounds. It rises from the streets, the classrooms, the quiet corners where ordinary lives are lived and dreams are built. It’s shaped by those who’ve felt the sting of inequality and still choose to speak up.

And if the Camp Aguinaldo rally taught us anything, it’s this: the future belongs not to those who cling to legacy, but to those who earn trust. Leaders who listen. Leaders who reform. Leaders who understand that the square pegs of privilege no longer fit in the round holes of a nation awakening to its people power.

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

Head collage photos courtesy of Tindig Pilipino & Wikipedia; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of Inquirer, Alab ng Maynila, You Tube, Facebook, & Philippine Defense Forces Forum/The ABL Group

FROM PLUNDER TO REDEMPTION: WHY BBM MUST LEAD WITH VISION NOT SURVIVAL

 

There’s a number that haunts me: $48 billion. That’s how much the World Bank estimated the Philippines lost to corruption between 1977 and 1997. Forty-eight billion dollars—P2.7 trillion, gone. Not just in currency, but in dignity, in roads never built, classrooms never filled, lives never lifted. It’s not just a statistic. It’s a wound.

And within that wound lies another: the US$5-10 billion in ill-gotten wealth attributed to the Marcos family during the final years of the dictatorship. That figure, widely accepted across sources, is not separate from the $48 billion—it is part and parcel of it. A dynasty’s plunder embedded in a nation’s suffering.

Now decades later, chilling symmetry emerges. The P1.9-trillion flood control corruption scandal, sprawling across fifteen years, eerily mirrors the World Bank’s estimate. One scandal marked by the father—Marcos Sr., etched in history for epic plunder. The other unfolding under the son—Marcos Jr., who now seeks redemption for a legacy that refuses to stay buried. Different decades, same surname. And the question that echoes louder than ever: Can a name once synonymous with corruption become a banner of atonement? Or will history simply repeat itself?

Not Vision But Survival

So, when President Bongbong Marcos (BBM) publicly explained his entry into politics— “our own survival required that somebody would go into politics”—I paused. Not because it was surprising, but because it was so starkly honest. His motive, by his own admission, was not national renewal, but personal defense. Not vision, but survival.

And yet, here we are. Standing waist-deep in a P1.9-trillion scandal, nearly matching the scale of past losses. Nothing new? Nothing changed? The names may differ, the figures may swell, but the anatomy of betrayal remains eerily familiar. Congress may convene hearings. A commission may be formed. Statements may be issued.

But beyond the ritual of accountability, the deeper question lingers like floodwaters that refuses to recede. Where is the vision? Not the reactive gesture. Not the procedural fix. But the kind of moral compass that can steer a nation out of its own decay.

Vision Is Not A Luxury—It Is A Lifeblood

The Book of Proverbs says it plainly.

A true leader must offer more than damage control. He must offer moral clarity, atonement, and a path forward. If BBM truly seeks to restore his father’s legacy, let it begin not with denial, but with public acceptance, apology, and restitution. Let it be shaped not by nostalgia, but by repentance.

And let that repentance fuel a deeper revolt—not just against corruption, but against the Godless system that enables it.

The Godless System and the Everyday Bait

In government offices like the DPWH, corruption is not abstract. It’s intimate. A worker offered a bribe must choose—between God and money. And too often, money wins.

Former President Duterte once mocked this choice, asking, “Who is this stupid God?” And the crowd laughed. But the laughter masked a deeper tragedy: the normalization of moral collapse.

Bishop Soc's Revolt of the Soul

Bishop Soc Villegas said it best.

This is the vision we need. A God-believing, God-loving, God-fearing system. Not imposed from above, but awakened from within. A system where integrity is not performative, but personal. Where civic duty is not transactional, but sacred.

Atonement As Vision

To dismantle the Godless system that has long corroded our institutions, we must begin not with slogan, but with acts of atonement. And no act would be more symbolic—more consequential—than for BBM to lead by example—not through denial or deflection, but through restitution.

The unpaid P203-billion estate tax, long upheld by the Supreme Court, is more than a legal obligation. It is a moral crossroad. Settling it would not only fulfill the law—it would signal a willingness to reconcile with history, to honor the truth, and to lead with integrity.

And integrity, in this wounded nation, is not an abstraction. It is lived and longed for in the quiet corners of ordinary lives—like Allan’s.

Allan's Story: A Taxpayer’s Plea Beneath the Weight of Illness

Allan shared his story in my ATABAY blog.

When he approached the Bureau of Internal Revenue (BIR) to plead for compassion, he carried more than documents. His son had endured 14 years of hemodialysis, and Allan himself faced prostate and thyroid surgeries, an angiogram, and P500,000 in looming medical costs. Their monthly expenses reached P50,000, and every peso mattered.

The P278,000 penalty he faced stemmed from a delayed title transfer—an error not of his own making. His Steeltown property was modest. He explained. He pleaded.

But the BIR head was unmoved: Pay it by any means necessary.

Seeking help elsewhere. Allan applied for free dialysis through the Malasakit program. He was denied. You have a decent house and a car, they told him. Malasakit is for the poorest of the poor.

And so, yielded, Allan paid what he could. He bore what he must.

His story is not just a lament—it is a mirror. Behind every tax receipt is a life. And behind every life, a plea for dignity.

In a nation where corruption thrives on impunity, paying an unpaid tax debt by BBM would pierce through cynicism like light through storm clouds. It would speak to every citizen, like Allan, losing faith: There is a good way.

The Godless system isn’t just about missing funds—it’s about missing conscience. And if we are to replace it with a God-believing, God-loving, God-fearing system, then the first step must be taken by BBM. Not to preserve legacy, but to redeem it. Not to survive history, but to transform it.

Healing Our Nation

If BBM truly wishes to lead, let him begin not with legacy preservation, but with atonement. Let him dismantle the Godless system—not merely manage its fallout. Let him pay what is owed—not just in pesos, but in principle.

In this moment of crisis, vision is not optional—it is existential. It is the line between a nation that drifts in denial and a nation that dares to heal. Between survival of power and survival of conscience.

And if we, the people, fail to demand such vision, then we too must ask: Have we served two masters? Have we laughed with the mockers? Have we enabled the very system we claim to despise?

The rallying cry must rise beyond “Tama na!”

It must become “Tayo na—baguhin natin ang ating puso’t kaluluwa.”

Only then can we begin to heal not just our nation, but our soul.

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

Head collage photos courtesy of Explained PH, Shopify, & Unsplash; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of Common Dreams, iStock, The Guardian, NPR, Pngtree, Politiko North Luzon, Facebook, Vecteezy

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.

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

Head image created by Bing; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of Gabriel Lalu/INQUIRER.net, Philippine Star, Getty Images, Church news, Green Left, Facebook, Showbiz Philippines, Sky News, 8List.ph, Dreamstime.com, & Bing image creator.

 

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.

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

Head collage photos courtesy of The Times of Israel; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of YouTube, Facebook, Wikipedia, Rappler, Property Report PH, People Asia, Reuters, Carlos Rodriguez/ANDES, mazurcatholicnews.org.uk