'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.

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

Head photo courtesy of Shutterstock; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of Shutterstock, Getty Images, Dreamstime.com, Philstar/Ryan Baldemor, Philstar cartoon/Rene A Aranda, & Freepik

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

A TALE OF TWO INVESTIGATIONS: WHY ICI MUST GO & OMBUDSMAN MUST LEAD

There’s a photo that’s been making the rounds online—a shot of Sarah Discaya caught mid-laugh during a Senate probe into corruption. Not a nervous chuckle. Not a grimace. A full, unbothered laugh. And it wasn’t just the image that went viral—it was what it symbolized.

Then came Ombudsman Crispin Remulla’s words: “I don’t see fear in their faces.”

That line hit like a gavel. When those under investigation can laugh—literally—at the system meant to hold them accountable, it’s not just a scandal. It’s a signal. A signal that the institutions we’ve entrusted to fight corruption are no longer feared, no longer respected, and maybe no longer working.

The ICI: A Commission in Crisis

The Independent Commission for Infrastructure was meant to be our scalpel—cutting through corruption in public works with surgical precision. Instead, it’s dulled by secrecy, bruised by politics, and increasingly seen as a shield rather than a sword.

Its hearings remain closed to the public, breeding suspicion instead of trust. And its roster of appointees only deepens the unease.

As columnist Jarius Bondoc pointed out, Gen. Rodolfo Azurin—now an ICI adviser—dismissed citizen protests as “chaos” and “violence,” ignoring the very freedom the commission claims to uphold. Meanwhile, Rosanna Fajardo’s ties to politically exposed entities like Benguet Corp. and the Romualdez family raise questions about impartiality.

Then came the photo-op that lit up social media. ICI Chair Andres Reyes shaking hands with Brice Hernandez, a self-confessed graft offender. What should’ve been a quiet forfeiture turned into a public spectacle—one that critics saw as an attempt to sanitize a criminal’s image. Reyes’s judicial record, including votes in the ouster of Chief Justice Sereno and the detention of Senator Leila de Lima, only adds to the perception of politicized leanings.

And now, even those under scrutiny—like Sarah Discaya—can laugh through a Senate probe, unbothered and unafraid. That viral image wasn’t just a meme. It was a mirror. A reflection of how far we’ve drifted from accountability.

When the accused feels no heat, it means the fire’s gone out.

Remulla’s Rise: A Turning Point

Enter Crispin Remulla. No fanfare. No theatrics. Just action.

He reopened the Pharmally case—one of the most glaring symbols of pandemic profiteering. He ordered the release of SALNs, cracking open the vault of public officials’ wealth. He’s probing ties that others tiptoe around, including Senator Bong Go’s alleged links to the Discayas. And he’s doing it with a kind of quiet ferocity that says: This time, we’re serious.

Remulla isn’t just restoring the Ombudsman’s teeth. He’s sharpening them.

And when the Office of the President itself suggests that citizens submit evidence directly to the Ombudsman, bypassing the ICI altogether—that’s not just a procedural tweak. That’s a vote of no confidence.

Sunlight Is the Best Medicine

And right now, we need a floodlight.

Transparency isn’t a PR stunt. It’s the oxygen of democracy. When hearings are closed, when findings are buried, when the public is kept in the dark, corruption doesn’t just survive—it thrives.

Fear, in this context, is not oppression. It’s accountability. It’s the rightful consequence of wrongdoing. And if the ICI can’t inspire that fear—if it can’t even inspire respect—then it’s not a watchdog. It’s a lapdog.

The Spiritual Weight of Fear

Sarah Discaya’s laugh may have gone viral. But it’s Remulla’s quiet observation—“I don’t see fear in their faces”—that should haunt us. Because fear, when it’s absent in the face of wrongdoing, signals something far more troubling than guilt. It signals impunity.

To understand fear’s deeper role in accountability, let me offer a simple illustration.

Imagine being handed a newly-invented gadget—one that functions like a speaker, but instead of playing music, it broadcasts your thoughts aloud to the public. Not just your polished opinions, but your raw, unfiltered inner voice.

What would you do? Most likely, you’d hide it. Tuck it away. Avoid turning it on. Why? Because you fear what others might hear. You fear the truth being exposed.

That kind of fear isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s the soul’s alarm bell, warning us that something hidden needs reckoning. And when institutions lose the ability to provide that fear—when those under investigation can laugh through probes and shrug off scrutiny—it means the system has lost its moral weight.

This is where the words of Jesus in Luke 12:2-3 ring with piercing clarity.

That’s not just scripture—it’s a spiritual truth and a civic warning. Transparency isn’t optional. It’s divine design. And fear, when rooted in truth, is the first step toward redemption.

The Case for Dissolution

So let me be clear: It’s time to dissolve the ICI.

Let’s stop pretending it’s working. Let’s stop pouring hope into a vessel that leaks. Let’s hand the reins to the Ombudsman—an institution with constitutional muscle, legal authority, and now, under Remulla, the moral clarity to match.

Let’s reinforce it. Resource it. Trust it. Let it lead.

The public isn’t just angry. We’re exhausted. We’re tired of a commission that investigates in silence and deliver in whispers. We want thunder. We want truth. We want justice that doesn’t flinch.

Final Word

We don’t need commission. We need conviction. We don’t need shadows. We need sunlight.

And if the ICI can’t deliver that, then it’s time to step aside. Because the people are watching. And this time, we won’t settle for silence.

Let us be the housetops from which justice is proclaimed. Let us demand fear—not of power, but of truth. Let us demand transparency—not as a favor, but as a right.

The time for whispers in shadows is over. The time for fearless accountability is now.

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

Head collage photos courtesy of Shutterstock, Adobe Stock, Journey AI Art; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of ABS-CBN News, Joan Bondoc/PNA, YouTube, Facebook, pexels.com, Freepik, Bing image creator, & dimitrisvetsikas1969

NOBEL SNUB & ICC SLAM: TRUMP & DUTERTE'S TWIN DEFEATS

 

Two headlines. Two men. Two very different continents. One eerily similar story.

“ICC rejects Duterte interim release bid”

“Nobel Peace Prize 2025: Trump lost”

In the span of a week, the world watched two populist strongmen—Rodrigo Duterte and Donald Trump—face humiliating setbacks on the world stage. One behind bars, the other behind a failed campaign for glory. Both, in their own way, were denied the recognition they so desperately sought.

Duterte: Denied at The Hague

Let’s start with Duterte. Detained at The Hague for alleged crimes against humanity, he pleaded for interim release. The ICC said no.

Ironically, it was the Duterte family’s own words that helped sink the bid. The court cited Duterte’s claim that his arrest was “pure and simple kidnapping”—a statement that undermined the legitimacy of the proceedings. Then came VP Sara Duterte’s speech, which hinted at a possible breakout and accused the ICC of colluding with the Philippine government. The judges weren’t amused.

As the old saying goes: “the fish is caught through the mouth.” Or, as Proverbs 6:2 puts it: “You have been trapped by what you said, ensnared by the words of your mouth.”

Trump: Snubbed by the Nobel Committee

Meanwhile, Trump was fresh off brokering a ceasefire in Gaza and lobbying hard to become the fifth American president to win the Nobel Peace Prize. But despite the 11th-hour campaign, the bid fell flat.

Feeling snubbed, the White House lashed out. Communications Director Steven Cheung declared, “The Nobel Committee proved they place politics over peace.”

But the Committee’s response was calm, resolute, and cutting.

Translation? Peace isn’t about optics. It’s about substance.

Trump the Arsonist

Trump’s foreign policy, by his own account— “I ended eight wars”—should’ve stirred the Nobel Committee to action. But critics weren’t buying it. They say he’s like an arsonist who sets the house on fire, calls the fire department, and then demands a medal for saving it.

Comedian Seth Meyers nailed it:

“You set the house on fire. Then you called the fire department. And now you want credit for saving the house from the fire you started. The house is still there. You’re welcome. Yes, lots of it very black, and everything’s wet.”

In the end, the prize went to Venezuelan activist Maria Corina Machado. In a twist of irony—or perhaps sarcasm—she dedicated it partly to Trump. He responded with characteristic bravado: “She accepted it in my honor.”

MAGA supporters were incensed. Israeli farmers even carved Nobel 4 Trump into a field in solidarity. But the Nobel Committee remained unmoved.

“Ms. Machado has been a key, unifying figure in a political opposition that was once deeply divided… At a time when democracy is under threat, it is more important than ever to defend the common ground.”

As one European commentator put it:

“Peace isn’t something you demand like a trophy—it’s something you embody.”

Duterte the Punisher

Back in the Philippines, Duterte faced his own Nobel drama. In 2021, journalist Maria Ressa—his fiercest critic—won the Nobel Peace Prize for defending press freedom amid his brutal war on drugs.

The Nobel Committee didn’t mince words:

“Maria Ressa uses freedom of expression to expose abuse of power, use of violence and growing authoritarianism… The number of deaths is so high that the campaign resembles a war waged against the country’s own population.”

DDS (Duterte Diehard Supporters) were outraged. They saw Ressa’s win as a slap in the face, a denial of Duterte’s "achievements.” Ressa, meanwhile, endured relentless online abuse.

“They dehumanized me by constantly using me as a meme… The worst part is their nickname for me, which they even did code words for—scrotum face. They spliced my head onto human genitals. I’d wake up to echo chambers filled with this horrific image.”

Fast forward to 2025, and the tables have turned. Ressa continues to speak truth to power. Duterte faces international prosecution. The contrast couldn’t be starker.

Populism and Paranoia

Both Trump and Duterte rose to power on waves of popular fervor, fueled by fear and fury.

For Trump, the enemy was immigrants. “They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists.”

For Duterte, the enemy was drug addicts. “If you know of any addicts, go ahead and kill them yourself.”

Both targeted the vulnerable. Both sowed chaos. And both rallied loyal supporters— MAGA and DDS—who share a deep distrust of international institutions. To them, bodies like the UN, ICC, Amnesty International, and the Nobel Committee are elitist, biased, and hostile to their heroes.

One DDS posted online after Duterte’s arrest: “This is not justice. This is global bullying.” A MAGA influencer echoed the sentiment: “Trump deserves the Nobel more than anyone. The world just can’t handle his greatness.”

The Bottom Line

The world doesn’t need strongmen demanding medals. It needs strong institutions defending humanity.

We need the ICC to hold war criminals accountable. We need the Nobel Committee to honor moral courage. We need the UN to build bridges where others build walls.

Trump and Duterte may have lost their bids for honor and release, but their stories remind us why global accountability matters. Because when authoritarianism rises, it’s the truth-tellers, the peace-builders, and the justice-seekers who must hold the line.

And Pope Leo XIV said it best:

“The Church, like a mother, accompanies those who are walking. She knows that every rejected migrant—it is Christ himself who knocks at the door of the community."

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

Head collage photos courtesy of cartoonmovement.com & ICC; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of Getty Images, CNBC, Time, cartoonmovement.com, & Bing image creator

NEEDS IMPROVEMENT: GRADING THE GOV'T ANTI-CORRUPTION PERFORMANCE

Ah, the Senate—where compassion gushes like floodwaters in a monsoon, but only when the political forecast calls for self-preservation.

Just a day after a magnitude 6.9 earthquake rattled Cebu leaving behind death toll rising to 72, P3-billion infrastructure damage, and grieving families, our honorable senators voted 15-3 to grant house arrest to Rodrigo Duterte. The reason? “Humanitarian grounds.” Sadly, it has no legal bearing on ICC.

Cebu magnitude 6.9 earthquake aftermath

How touching. Their sense of humanity for the architect of the bloody drug war seems far more urgent than the actual humans reeling from real disasters. And let’s not forget the backdrop: a P100-billion flood control “dubious insertions” that, according to Sen. Panfilo Lacson, had “almost all senators” dipping their hands into the 2025 budget like it was a buffet table at a campaign fundraiser. Yet somehow, the urgency to act on that mess—like Sen. Chiz Escudero's dribbling of VP Sara's impeachment ball—remains stuck in traffic.

Forty-Seven Days

That’s how long it’s been since the flood control scandal detonated by Sen. Lacson's Flooded Gates of Corruption speech like a corruption bombshell across the country. And yet, here we are—still waiting in the sidelines, watching the tide of investigations recede instead of rise. The House probe? Suspended. The Senate Blue Ribbon Committee? Paused. The only institution still standing is the Independent Commission for Infrastructure (ICI), quietly conducting closed-door hearings.

As a citizen, and if I may speak as a teacher evaluating my student government’s performance in the subject Anti-Corruption Initiative 101, I’d give it a grade of NI—Needs Improvement. And I say that not out of cynicism, but out of concern.

The ICI: Our Last Line of Defense

Let’s be clear: the ICI is now the barometer of our government’s resolve. It’s the only body left actively investigating the flood control scandal, and its credibility is on the line.

The case of Rep. Elizaldy Co—who allegedly orchestrated budget padding, kickbacks, and ghost projects—is the litmus test. Should the ICI falter at this critical juncture, it won’t merely be a lost opportunity—it will mark a dangerous turning point, signaling that the machinery of corruption in infrastructure is too entrenched to dismantle.

Co’s resignation from Congress just hours before a travel ban was to take effect didn’t help. It felt less like accountability and more like a strategic retreat. His alleged ties to Sunwest Inc., which bagged P86 billion in government contracts, and the seven vans of suitcase deliveries of P1 billion in cash to his penthouse—these aren’t just numbers. They’re symbols of how deep that rot goes.

A Nation on Hold

This isn’t just about infrastructure. It’s about trust. It’s about the people who live in flood-prone areas, who watch their homes drown while billions are siphoned off into ghost projects. It’s about every Filipino who pay taxes and deserves to see those funds build roads, bridges, and flood defenses—not line pockets.

We’ve seen this playbook before: scandal breaks, outrage flares, investigations stall, and, to the bitter end, silence wins. But this time, we must demand better. Transparency. Speed. Accountability. The ICI must not just investigate and open its hearings to public—it must deliver.

Meantime—In The Land of Delays and Distractions

While floodwaters continue to rise in real life, the flood of evidence in the corruption scandal seems stuck in bureaucratic bottlenecks.

According to Sen. Lacson, the highly anticipated tell-all affidavits from the Discayas—contractor allegedly at the heart of the ghost project racket—are still nowhere to be found at the DOJ. Add to that the Manila RTC’s investigation into the notarized document involving TSgt Guteza and Atty. Espera—remaining in limbo.

With key pieces of the puzzle missing, Lacson had no choice but to hit pause on his Senate Blue Ribbon Committee hearings.

And just as I was tapping away at this piece, another headline dropped like a plot twist: Sen. Lacson stepped down as committee chair. Whether out of frustration, fatigue, or political pressure, it’s a move that would leave the Senate’s anti-corruption efforts even more adrift.

The Ombudsman’s Watch and Co’s Vanishing Act

Meanwhile the Office of the Ombudsman is still poring over the ICI’s 32-page report—a document that could make or break the case against Rep. Elizaldy Co. This isn’t just paperwork. It’s the culmination of days of closed-door hearings, whistleblower testimonies, forensic audits, and asset tracing.

It holds the blueprint for formal charges that could finally bring accountability to one of the most brazen corruption schemes in recent memory. And yet, the longer the review drags on, the louder the public’s impatience grows.

As for Co himself? He’s become a ghost in his own scandal. One day he’s rumored to be in the U.S., the next in Spain—perhaps shopping in trendy SoHo in New York or sipping sangria in Seville, while Filipinos back home wade through floodwaters funded by their own stolen taxes.

Co's resignation may have shielded him from congressional scrutiny, but it hasn’t erased the outrage. For a man accused of pocketing billions, his international escapades feel like salt in the wound.

Tempting a Reset?

So here we are. Investigations stalled. Hearings suspended. Key players missing in action. And the only institution still grinding away is the ICI—carrying the weight of a nation’s hope for justice.

So yes, I stand by my grade of NI—Needs Improvement.

Eventually, the final grade hinges on whether the ICI can rise above the noise, cut through the fog, and deliver what the people deserve: truth, accountability, and a system that finally works—not just on paper, but in the lives of ordinary Filipinos.

Perhaps what we need is a reset. Oops, not the kind AFP Chief Gen Romeo Brawner Jr. ominously warned about—a sweeping “reset for the entire Philippine society,” which sounds more like a dystopian reboot than a democratic remedy.

Nah, what we need is a crisis management reset: a recalibration of priorities, a reawakening of political will, a restoration of public trust, and a revival of moral values. 

One that doesn’t just patch potholes in governance.

It rebuilds the entire road to integrity.

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

Head collage image by Bing image creator; design by Canva

Still photos courtesy of UN News, Hindustan Times, Facebook, AP News, Inquirer, YouTube, 123RF, National Post, & Global Times.