Category Archives: Better Philippines
When Good News Didn’t Feel Good
Reflections on the Weakening Peso and the Plight of Ordinary Filipinos
When I recently checked the exchange rate between the Korean won and the Philippine peso, I discovered that one million won was worth approximately 46,000 pesos. In June 2026, the same amount would have given me less than 40,000 pesos.
For someone like me who earns a living in South Korea but still has family and financial responsibilities in the Philippines, that was supposed to be good news. Without working additional hours but earning an extra won, I could now send home several thousand pesos more.
Under ordinary circumstances, that would have been something to celebrate.
And for a moment, I did. I was pleasantly surprised, and a smile crossed my face. But as the implications of what I had just discovered began to sink in, my smile slowly faded.
The difference alone amounted to several thousand pesos—money that many ordinary Filipino wage earners would have to work for days, perhaps even weeks, to earn. And here I was, gaining that much simply because the exchange rate had changed.
That realization left me increasingly uneasy. What initially seemed like a welcome financial advantage gradually became a source of concern. The additional pesos that my family could receive reminded me of something far more troubling: the continuing decline in the value of our currency and what it might mean for millions of Filipinos who earn their living in pesos.
I realized that what appeared to be a financial advantage for my family could also be a reflection of economic pressures affecting countless other families back home.
And I found myself thinking: Filipinos are not just me and my family.
There are millions of ordinary Filipinos who wake up every morning, go to work, and struggle to make ends meet. Unlike overseas Filipino workers and their families, they do not have the advantage of earning in a foreign currency whose value has increased against the peso.
When prices rise, their salaries do not necessarily rise with them. When the cost of food, transportation, electricity, and other necessities increases, they must find ways to stretch an income that may already be barely sufficient.
Some reduce their spending. Others sacrifice the little comforts they once enjoyed. Still others borrow money, postpone medical treatment, or compromise their children’s educational needs.
And for families already living on the margins, there may be very little left to sacrifice.
Of course, I understand that the exchange rate alone does not tell the complete story of our economy. A weakening peso does not necessarily mean that the entire economy is collapsing. Economic growth can continue even when the currency depreciates. There are industries that remain productive, businesses that prosper, and economic indicators that suggest progress.
But I cannot help asking: Progress for whom?
What does economic growth mean to a father whose salary can no longer adequately feed his family? What does an increase in national production mean to a mother who must decide which household necessities she can afford to buy? What comfort can favorable economic statistics offer a young worker whose earnings leave almost nothing for savings?
I do not dismiss the importance of economic indicators. They are essential for understanding where our country stands and where it may be heading.
But behind those numbers are people. Behind every percentage point are households trying to survive, parents trying to provide, and young Filipinos hoping for a better future.
An economy may be growing, but if its ordinary citizens are finding it increasingly difficult to live decently, then surely something deserves closer examination.
I am also aware that not everyone suffers equally during difficult economic times. Those who possess substantial resources, diversified investments, or foreign-currency earnings may be better equipped to protect themselves from rising prices. Some may even benefit from changing economic conditions.
Those who have little, however, have fewer choices. And as the cost of living continues to rise, what little they have becomes worth even less.
And that is what troubles me most. Economic hardship does not distribute its burdens equally. Often, those who have the least are asked, by circumstances rather than choice, to endure the most.
Living abroad has given me a particular perspective on this reality. I have spent many years working in South Korea, and I am grateful for the opportunities this country has provided me. I have been able to support my family, pursue my profession, and build a life that would have been different had I remained in the Philippines.
Yet I cannot separate my personal circumstances from my identity as a Filipino.
My financial security does not make me indifferent to the insecurity of my countrymen. My family’s ability to adjust to rising prices does not diminish my concern for families who cannot.
And perhaps that is why those additional pesos did not bring me the satisfaction I might otherwise have felt.
They reminded me of the distance between my circumstances and those of many people back home.
As I reflected further, my thoughts inevitably turned toward the larger question of what it would take to improve our country’s condition.
I wish there were simple answers. I wish our economic problems could be solved through a single policy, a change in leadership, or a temporary intervention that would immediately ease the burdens of ordinary Filipinos.
But the problems confronting our nation have accumulated over many years. They involve not only economic policies and institutions but also deeply rooted attitudes, practices, and behaviors that influence how we work, govern, cooperate, and hold ourselves accountable.
This is why I continue to believe in the importance of self-improvement—not as an instant remedy for poverty or economic inequality, and certainly not as a way of blaming those who are struggling for circumstances beyond their control.
Rather, I see it as one of the foundations of lasting national transformation.
A nation needs citizens who are capable, responsible, disciplined, discerning, and guided by sound values. It needs people who can think critically, make purposeful decisions, demand accountability, and contribute meaningfully to their communities.
At the same time, those citizens deserve institutions that protect their rights, reward honest work, provide fair opportunities, and enable them to improve their lives.
Personal transformation and institutional reform must work together. Neither can fully accomplish what our country needs without the other.
I recognize that this is a long-term undertaking. Its results may not be immediately visible, and I may never witness the kind of national transformation I hope to see.
Sometimes, that realization leaves me feeling helpless.
What can one Filipino, living thousands of kilometers away, realistically do about the economic hardships confronting millions of his countrymen?
I cannot determine the exchange rate. I cannot control inflation. I cannot single-handedly reform institutions or create employment opportunities for those who need them.
But I can continue doing what I know how to do: teach, write, share ideas, and encourage others to recognize their capacity for personal growth and meaningful contribution.
Perhaps these efforts are modest when measured against the magnitude of our national problems. But I would rather contribute something, however small, than surrender to the belief that nothing can be done.
After all, national transformation does not happen independently of the people who constitute a nation.
I have come to believe that our country’s socioeconomic problems cannot be resolved through changes in political leadership alone. Holding public officials accountable, strengthening institutions, and pursuing meaningful reforms are necessary. But even these efforts may fall short of producing lasting progress unless they are accompanied by changes within ourselves.
For what good would changing our leaders do if we continued to tolerate, practice, or perpetuate the very attitudes and behaviors that contribute to our nation’s problems?
Perhaps the transformation we long to see in our country must also begin with the transformation of its people—not as a substitute for political and institutional reforms, but as an essential part of them.
And so I return to the conviction that has guided my advocacy:
Better Self… Better Life… Better Nation!
These words are not a promise of an easy solution. They express a direction, a commitment, and a hope that the improvement of individuals, accompanied by the strengthening of our institutions, can eventually contribute to the improvement of our country.
I still appreciate the additional pesos that my Korean won can now provide my family. I am grateful that we have some protection against the increasing cost of living.
But I cannot bring myself to celebrate a favorable exchange rate without thinking about the economic circumstances that may be contributing to it and the people who must endure those circumstances without the same protection.
Perhaps someday I will look at the exchange rate and find less reason to worry about the condition of my country.
Not necessarily because the peso has become stronger, but because ordinary Filipinos have become economically secure enough that fluctuations in currency values no longer threaten their ability to live decently.
That is the kind of progress I hope to see.
Until then, I will remain grateful for what my family has, concerned for those who have less, and committed to doing whatever I can to contribute to a better Philippines.
Because while one million Korean won may now be worth more pesos, the well-being of my countrymen will always be worth far more to me than the additional money my family receives.
Ang Hamon Ng Salamin
(A Personal Essay in Filipino)
Habang ang bayan natin ay nilulunod ng tubig-bahang tila ayaw nang humupa at ng walang katapusang bangayan sa pulitika, sisinghap-singhap akong humarap sa salamin at napatanong:
“Kailan kaya magbabago ang bansang ito?”
Habang tinititigan ko ang aking sarili sa salamin at pinagninilayan ang katanungang iyon, bigla kong naalala ang isang bahagi ng kanta ni Michael Jackson na Man in the Mirror.
At muli kong binalikan ang katanungang iyon.
May magbabago pa nga ba? May pagbabago bang ihahatid ang halalan sa 2028?
Pumikit ako.
At muli na namang umalingawngaw sa aking isip ang bahaging iyon ng kanta ni Michael Jackson.
At kapagdaka’y napagtanto kong mali ang tanong ko.
Ang pagbabagong kailangan ng ating bansa ay hindi magsisimula sa halalan sa 2028.
Magsisimula ito sa akin—hindi sa balota, hindi sa 2028, kundi ngayon.
Napakadaling tumingin sa mga pulitiko, sa mga institusyon, at sa sistema at sabihin kung ano ang mali sa kanila. Ngunit may isang simpleng katotohanan akong napagtanto. Sabihin ko man kung ano ang mali sa kanila, ipagsigawan ko man ito sa kanilang mukha hanggang malagot ang lahat ng litid ko sa leeg, wala pa ring katiyakang magbabago sila.
Hindi ko kayang baguhin nang mag-isa ang Pilipinas. Hindi ko kayang baguhin nang mag-isa ang sistema. At lalong hindi ko kayang pilitin ang aking kapwa Pilipino na magbago.
Pero kaya kong baguhin ang sarili ko.
Hindi nito inaalis ang pananagutan ng mga politikong nangungulimbat sa kaban ng bayan. Hindi rin ibig sabihin nito na dapat akong tumigil sa paghingi ng katapatan, kakayahan, at pananagutan mula sa mga namumuno.
Managot ang dapat managot.
Pero may pananagutan din ako, eh. Dapat din akong managot. Hindi ako puwedeng magmalinis.
Bakit?
Ibinoto ko sila.
Paulit-ulit.
At aaminin kong pati mga tatay, nanay, ate, kuya—at kung sinu-sino pang kadugo nila—ay naiboto ko rin.
Noong una, nagpaloko ako. Nang kalaunan ay nakikita ko na ang panlilinlang, nagbulag-bulagan naman ako. Mas masahol pa, kung minsan ay ipinagtanggol ko pa sila.
Nakipag-away pa nga ako dahil sa kanila.
Pero ano ang napala ko?
Umunlad ba ang buhay ko? Nadagdagan ba kahit singkong kusing ang kinikita ko? Sumarap ba ang pang-ulam na kinakain ko?
Nangyari na ang nangyari. Hindi ko na mababago ang nakaraan. At lalong hindi ko kayang baguhin nang sapilitan ang mga lider kuno na hinayaan kong paulit-ulit na nakawan ang kaban ng bayan at paikot-ikutin akong parang trumpo.
At marahil, doon dapat magsimula ang aking pananagutan—hindi sa pagsisikap na baguhin ang mga politiko o ang ibang tao, kundi sa pagbabago ng aking sarili.
Mahirap nang baguhin ang sarili ko. Bakit ko pa uubusin ang aking lakas sa pagsisikap na baguhin ang mga taong wala naman akong kapangyarihang kontrolin?
Maaari kong tuligsain nang tuligsain ang sistema ngunit manatili pa rin akong katulad ng dati. Maaari akong magreklamo tungkol sa katiwalian ngunit palampasin ang maliliit na pandaraya at kasinungalingan sa sarili kong buhay. Maaari akong humingi ng disiplina sa mga opisyal ng pamahalaan habang ako mismo ay kulang sa disiplina. Maaari akong humingi ng responsableng pamumuno habang ayaw kong akuin ang pananagutan sa sarili kong mga pasya.
Kaya napagpasyahan kong magsimula kung saan mayroon talaga akong kapangyarihan.
Sa sarili ko.
Kung magsisimula ako sa sarili, unti-unti akong magiging mas mabuting bersyon ng kung sino ako ngayon. At sa pagiging mas mabuting tao, mas malaki ang pagkakataon kong magkaroon—kasama ang aking pamilya—ng mas mabuting buhay.
At paano kung mas marami pang Pilipino ang gumawa ng ganito ring pasya?
Hindi naghihintay ng halalan.
Hindi naghihintay ng bagong pangulo.
Hindi naghihintay ng isang malaking pangyayaring biglang babago sa buong bansa.
Kundi nagsisimula sa sarili.
Isipin natin ang milyun-milyong Pilipinong nagsisikap maging mas responsable, mas disiplinado, mas matapat, mas mahabagin, mas mahusay, at mas handang managot sa kanilang mga ginagawa.
Isipin natin ang mga pamilyang mahuhubog ng ganitong mga tao, ang mga lugar ng trabahong maiimpluwensiyahan nila, ang mga pamayanang mapauunlad nila, at kalaunan, ang mga institusyong pamumunuan nila.
Marahil, ang isang mas mabuting bansa ay hindi nagsisimula sa Malacañang.
Marahil, nagsisimula ito sa ating mga tahanan, sa ating mga pinagtatrabahuhan, sa ating mga silid-aralan, at sa maliliit na pasyang ginagawa natin araw-araw.
Marahil, ang pagbabago ng Pilipinas ay hindi lamang nakasalalay sa paghahanap natin ng mas mabubuting pinuno.
Marahil, nakasalalay rin ito sa pagiging mas mabubuting mamamayan natin.
Hindi ko kayang baguhin nang mag-isa ang Pilipinas.
Pero kaya kong baguhin ang sarili ko.
At biglang naging mas makahulugan sa akin ang mensahe ng Man in the Mirror:
“If you want to make this world a better place, tak a look at yourself then make a change.”
Kung tunay kong nais na maging mas mabuti ang mundong ginagalawan ko, marahil ang unang taong dapat kong hamuning magbago ay ang taong nakatitig sa akin mula sa salamin.
Kaya sa halip na itanong ko,
“Kailan kaya magbabago ang bansang ito?”
marahil ay panahon nang ibaling ko sa aking sarili ang tanong.
“Kailan ako magsisimulang magbago?”
Better Self… Better Life… Better Nation.
The Only Thing That Interested Me in BBM’s SONA
There is only one sentence in President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.’s latest State of the Nation Address that truly interests me:
“Kaya dapat nakakintal sa puso’t isipan ng mga Pilipino ang lifelong learning at continuous self-improvement.”
Rendered in English, the statement reads:
“Lifelong learning and continuous self-improvement must be deeply ingrained in the hearts and minds of Filipinos.”
Of everything spoken from the podium, this single statement transcended politics. It did not ask Filipinos to applaud a reported accomplishment, believe another political promise, defend an administration, or condemn its opponents. Its truth does not depend on whether one supports or opposes the President. It speaks to every citizen regardless of political affiliation because it places neither a politician nor the government at the center of national progress. It places the individual Filipino there.
Ironically, this sentence—if translated into meaningful legislation, coherent public policy, and sustained community programs—could yield consequences far more profound than any of the applause lines that echoed through the plenary hall. Yet it received no ovation. Perhaps it drew little enthusiasm because true education rarely offers the immediate spectacle that politics demands. Investing in human capacity is like planting a forest: the seeds sown today may take years—or even generations—to reach maturity. Political applause is immediate but fleeting; educational investment is gradual but enduring.
Strip this statement of the President’s name, voice, and political identity, and it loses none of its validity. A DDS, a Kakampink, a Marcos loyalist, or someone entirely indifferent to politics can recognize its worth. Its truth does not derive from the authority of the speaker, but from the reality it expresses:
- Lifelong Learning develops what people know and can do—strengthening competence in a rapidly changing world of technology, evolving industries, and shifting responsibilities.
- Continuous Self-Improvement develops who they are and how they live—cultivating character, discipline, health, ethics, and civic responsibility.
Together, these twin pillars prepare citizens to adapt, solve complex problems, resist manipulation, and create meaningful opportunities.
To be clear, self-improvement alone cannot fix every broken institution or eradicate corruption. Nor does this perspective grant government officials an escape from accountability—Filipinos must remain relentless in demanding honest, competent, and responsive leadership. However, systemic policy and individual growth must go hand in hand; even the best policies fail when executed by individuals who neglect their own ethical and intellectual growth.
We must abandon the myth that electing a political savior will, on its own, transform the nation. We cannot demand discipline from leaders while tolerating indiscipline in ourselves, condemn dishonesty in public office while practicing it in daily life, or expect national excellence while settling for personal mediocrity.
The most vital message in the SONA was not a grand promise of what the government will do for us, but a timely reminder of what Filipinos must continually do for themselves—and, ultimately, for one another. Lifelong learning and continuous self-improvement do not render government obsolete; rather, they cultivate citizens capable of demanding better governance, electing wiser leaders, building resilient institutions, and sustaining lasting national progress.
The future of the country cannot be left solely in the hands of politicians. It must be built within the hearts, minds, character, competence, and daily conduct of the Filipino people.
Better Self • Better Life • Better Nation
What’s For Dinner
(A Declamation Piece)
A Note Before the Piece
I wrote pieces like this once for young voices that weren’t my own — contestants I coached, trained, and sent to the stage carrying words I’d written for them. There was no greater satisfaction than hearing them reach the final line and say the title, and then my name, before the room. Those days shaped how I write even now: always for a voice, always for a stage, always for someone who will make the words theirs the moment they say them aloud.
“What’s For Dinner” continues that tradition — written in the spirit of BULPRISA’s declamation seasons, for whoever is bold enough to stand up, look their audience in the eye, and ask the question this piece asks.
Through this piece, I want to appeal to my countrymen with one question: Does taking sides in our country’s political upheavals bring food to your table?
_____
Same fight. Different night. Different bill, different senator, different hashtag — same two people, standing in the same kitchen, screaming across the same table I do my homework on.
“You still support that? After everything?”
“At least my side isn’t stealing us blind!”
“Your side wrote the book on stealing!”
I stood between them tonight. Again. Like I always do. But tonight, for the first time, I didn’t just stand there.
I picked up the rice pot — still half full, still warm — and I put it down on the table, hard enough that it rattled the plates.
“Is this what we’re eating tonight?” I said. “Or are we eating your outrage instead? Because I’m hungry, and outrage doesn’t have any calories.”
They both looked at me like I’d slapped them.
Good.
Do you want to know what I know about politics? I know plenty. Don’t mistake my anger for ignorance. I know what Papa’s senator promised, and I know he hasn’t delivered half of it. I know what Mama’s congressman voted for, and I know who paid for that vote. I’ve read the same news both of you scream about. I’ve seen the same corruption — on both sides, in every color, behind every podium. You want to know my political position? Here it is: everyone up there is stealing from us. Every single one. The only difference is which thief you’ve decided to defend like he’s family — which side has enough power to bury the other.
Meanwhile, your actual family is standing right here. Getting smaller every night.
Do you remember Lola’s wake? Six months ago? I do. I remember it because it’s the last time I saw both of you in the same room and not fighting — because for one week, grief was louder than politics. Then the week ended, and you went right back to it. Over her own casket, practically. I heard you, Papa, bring up the drug war while we were still folding the funeral programs. I heard you, Mama, answer back with the same three names you always bring up. Lola wasn’t even buried yet.
You want to know what I lost that week? Not just Lola. I lost the only proof I had that you two still remember how to be quiet together.
Last month, tuition was due. You know this. I know you know this, because I heard you both say, separately, on separate nights, that money was tight. And yet — Papa, you drove four hours to a rally. Gas money, food, a shirt with a name on it that isn’t ours. Mama, you spent six hundred pesos boosting a post. Six hundred pesos. That’s my project money for next week. That’s food for three days. That’s not a small thing to me, even if it’s small enough for you both to forget by morning.
Tell me — what did that rally buy us? What did that post feed us? Did the senator you cheered for pay our electric bill? Did the congressman you defended send rice to this house? No. He didn’t. He doesn’t know we exist. He doesn’t know my name. But you’ll fight for him like he’s blood, and fight against each other like you’re not.
I am so tired of being the only adult in this house.
I am tired of choosing which parent to sit next to at dinner based on who’s less likely to bring up politics tonight.
I am tired of loving two people who love their political tribes more than they love being married to each other.
So here is what I need from both of you — not a compromise, not a ceasefire, not “let’s agree to disagree.” I need you to look at this table. Look at what’s on it. Or what isn’t. And ask yourselves — what has taking sides ever once put on this table?
Nothing. It has cost us. It has never once fed us.
So choose a side tonight, if you must. Choose this family’s side. Because that’s the only side that’s ever once needed you to show up.
How Colonialism Shaped the Filipino Character
Ask a hundred Filipinos what makes a Filipino a Filipino, and you will likely get a hundred different answers — hospitality, resilience, family, faith, humor, an uncanny gift for finding joy in hardship. Ask a hundred more, and darker answers will surface too: a fatalism that shrugs at misfortune, a habit of measuring themselves against foreigners and coming up short in their own eyes, a suspicion of the next province that borders on hostility. Both sets of answers are true. Neither tells the whole story on its own.
This four-part essay is an attempt to tell that fuller story — not by cataloging Filipino traits as though they simply exist, the way eye color or height exists, but by asking where they came from. A people’s character is not accidental. It is built, layer upon layer, from the specific things that happen to them over specific centuries, under specific rulers. For the Filipino, those centuries were largely colonial ones: 333 years under Spain, nearly half a century more under the United States. To understand the Filipino today without reckoning with those years is to admire a house’s furniture while ignoring the foundation on which it was built.
This essay draws on historical record as much as personal reflection — the documented mechanisms of colonial administration alongside the lived, inherited patterns still visible in Filipino life today. Where the two meet is where this essay lives.
Part One lays that foundation, tracing the Filipino from a people already possessed of their own culture and governance before any galleon arrived, through the long violence of Spanish rule, to the betrayal that followed when a nation Filipinos had mistaken for an ally simply became their next colonizer.
Part Two turns to what survived — and what may have even been strengthened — through all of it: the hospitality, the resilience, the family loyalty and communal spirit that colonization tested but did not break.
Part Three turns to the cost — the fatalism, the regionalism, the colonial mentality that took root during those same centuries, planted deliberately by rulers who profited from a people divided against themselves and unsure of their own worth.
Part Four brings both halves together, arguing that the strength and the wound were never separate stories. They came from the same three hundred years, visited on the same people, and they live on, side by side, in the same national character today.
The writer does not pretend to have the final word on Filipino identity — no single essay could. But for a people whose history has too often been written by outsiders, and too rarely examined by themselves, even an incomplete reckoning is worth attempting. As you read what follows, you might find it useful to ask the same questions of your own family, your own province, your own habits of thought — because the history in these four parts is not abstract. It is, in some quiet way, still writing itself through each of us.
Understanding the wound is the first task. What a Filipino chooses to do with that understanding — for himself, his family, his country — is a separate reckoning, for another time. But understanding why we are the way we are remains the first step toward deliberately deciding who we choose to become next.
Quezon’s Curse
Did Manuel L. Quezon, the second president of the Philippines who served from 1935 to 1944, unknowingly curse the nation when he declared, “I would rather have a government run like hell by Filipinos than a government run like heaven by Americans”?
The Americans eventually ceased governing the Philippines by force after the Second World War. It was not independence that the Filipinos were granted on July 4, 1946, but freedom. The Americans did not save the Philippines from Spain, as some uninformed Filipinos and the rest of the world wrongly thought. The US coerced Spain into selling the island to them. So, the Philippines was passed by a colonial tyrant to another… to a more powerful and ruthless tyrant.
Let this be clear… The US did not save the Philippines from Spain. The former forcibly grabbed our nation from the latter.
When the Americans finally turned over the reins of government to Filipinos, Quezon could have been the happiest man alive had he lived to witness it. At last, the Philippines had a government run by its own people.
But as the saying goes, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Our country has since been governed by Filipino politicians. Given the Philippines’ governance over the decades, how would we assess the performance of those who have served in the different branches of government since the Americans passed the baton of leadership?
Only the blind — and those who benefit from the system — would deny how badly the nation has deteriorated. Only the naïve would refuse to see that the Filipino spirit seems lost. Like a dried leaf in autumn, it drifts wherever the wind blows. The Filipino identity has become like a shattered mirror. Each broken piece reflects a different truth, yet none shows the whole picture of who we once were or what we should be as a people.
As a nation, we are as fragmented as the islands that form our archipelago. The colonial strategy of “divide and conquer,” once used to weaken and subjugate us, continues to linger in our society. Even today, it keeps us deeply divided.
And all this appears to trace back to what now feels like Quezon’s curse — “a government run like HELL by Filipinos.”
For how long have we been led by politicians who seem to have descended from hell itself? Would it be unfair to describe members of the executive and legislative branches as soulless demons who take turns plunging their hands into the nation’s coffers, depriving the people of the services and opportunities they deserve? And what of those in the judiciary and the military who appear to look the other way?
One cannot help but recall the countless anomalous “flood control projects” — billions poured into programs meant to protect communities, yet every year, towns and cities continue to drown while only a select few grow richer. What was supposed to shield the people from disaster has instead become another avenue for plunder.
The sad reality is that the Filipino people cannot simply play the victim. It was Filipinos themselves who summoned these demons from the depths of hell and enthroned them in Malacañang and in Congress. In short, they voted for them. And the sadder part is that even now, when it is clear as day that the devils they have chosen are guilty of corruption, many still continue to support them.
Thus, Quezon’s pronouncement refers not only to Filipino politicians but also to the Filipinos who placed them in power.
“Kawawang Inang Bayan.”
Would we not, at times, be tempted to think that perhaps we would have been better off had the Americans continued to run our government?
Would we not be tempted to accept their old justification for staying on Philippine soil — that Filipinos were not ready for self-governance?
Yet perhaps Quezon did not curse us at all.
Perhaps what he offered was not a prophecy of doom but a challenge — a declaration of faith in the Filipino people’s capacity to govern themselves, to learn from their mistakes, and to shape their own destiny. The tragedy is not that Filipinos were given the reins of government. The tragedy is that, over time, many surrendered vigilance, traded principles for convenience, and allowed power to fall into the hands of the few.
A government “run like hell by Filipinos” was never meant to be permanent. It was meant to be corrected by an awakened citizenry. Democracy was supposed to be a system in which bad leaders could be removed, corruption punished, and the people remain the true sovereign.
But when a nation grows tired, when poverty silences voices, and when hope is repeatedly betrayed, tyranny does not need foreigners to thrive. It is cultivated from within.
Quezon’s words were not a curse. They were a warning wrapped in hope.
What turned that hope into hell was not Filipino governance itself, but Filipino complacency. We allowed demons to rise not because we were incapable of self-rule, but because we stopped guarding it fiercely.
In the end, the real question is not whether Quezon cursed us.
The real question is whether we, as a people, abandoned the responsibility that freedom demanded.
The More Painful Injustice
ICC’s decision denying former President Rodrigo Duterte’s request for interim release elicited different reactions. As expected, his supporters grieved; his critics rejoiced. Social media erupted. Commentaries burst like fireworks. Lawyers, influencers, and armchair experts all rushed forward with their own interpretations and opinions.
But buried beneath this noise is a truth many refuse to acknowledge: the corruption allegations against the sitting political powers remain unresolved, uninvestigated, and—most damning—protected.
And yes, we should not disregard the corruption committed by previous administrations as well.
At this juncture, we must confront the question everyone keeps tiptoeing around:
If extrajudicial killings can be considered a crime against humanity, what then do we call the corruption allegedly committed by officials of the incumbent government—corruption so massive it starved hospitals, crippled schools, and robbed the poorest Filipinos of the help they desperately needed?
What do we call leaders who tolerated the theft, shielded the thieves, and—worst of all—turned out to be thieves themselves?
Which is the greater sin: the murder of a few thousand, or the plunder of billions?
Who committed the graver crime: the fingers that pulled the trigger, or the hands that emptied the nation’s coffers?
The corruption committed by those in power—whether yesterday or today—is not petty, not the old excuse of “traditional politics,” and not the sanitized label of a “budget anomaly.”
This is plunder disguised as governance.
Billions meant for healthcare vanished while patients slept on floors, dying without medicine.
Billions meant for classrooms disappeared while children learned beneath leaking roofs.
Billions meant for poverty alleviation were used by the corrupt officials to fatten their bank accounts.
Every peso stolen by those in power translates to: a child who goes hungry, a mother who dies untreated, a worker whose future evaporates, a community trapped in poverty, a family whose hope is extinguished.
We must stop pretending corruption is merely a financial crime.
It is a human rights violation with casualties, as real and as tragic as any body found in an alley.
The painful irony?
One man faces the hostile ICC for killings.
But the many government officials accused of stealing the nation’s lifeblood face the friendly ICI who might possibly give them a simple slap on the wrist.
The ICC cannot touch them — and that is their shield under the Rome Statute, the ICC only prosecutes:
genocide
crimes against humanity
war crimes
aggression
Corruption—no matter how destructive—does not qualify.
The ICC can examine killings linked to a past administration.
But the alleged plunder committed under the current administration is untouchable.
They are shielded not by innocence, but by the ICC’s jurisdiction.
They know it.
Their lawyers know it.
Their political allies know it.
This is why they look unbothered.
This is why they speak as if justice is optional.
Because for corruption, under international law,
The Hague has no handcuffs.
But viewed through the lens of the United Nations Convention Against Corruption (UNCAC), the crime committed by corrupt members of the Executive and Legislative branches of the Philippine government remains evident.
The Philippines is bound by the United Nations Convention Against Corruption (UNCAC).
Under UNCAC, corruption is not merely illegal. It is seen as a violation of human dignity.
Corruption becomes a human rights offense when it deprives citizens of healthcare, destroys education systems, blocks justice through political interference, deepens poverty, and kills through neglect and substandard infrastructure.
Every bridge that collapses because of corruption, every medicine that never reaches a dying patient, every student robbed of a proper education—these are casualties of today’s corruption.
UN bodies cannot jail individual senators, cabinet members, or presidents. But they can expose a government’s failures. They can embarrass a nation on the global stage. They can pressure for reforms and sanctions. They can help freeze stolen assets hidden abroad. And they can force the world to see what our own institutions refuse to confront.
And in the quiet between outrage and applause, a single question remains: Whose crime weighs heavier on the nation’s soul?
Let us stop pretending this is a simple comparison.
Duterte is being investigated for the bodies we saw. But incumbent officials are being accused of crimes whose victims we don’t always see— because the victims are the millions who are slowly suffocating from poverty, hunger, broken hospitals, broken schools, and broken futures.
A bullet kills instantly.
Corruption kills invisibly.
But the graves are real.
Sometimes, corruption is the quieter executioner.
The true tragedy is not that the ICC is pursuing Duterte.
The tragedy is that the officials accused of bleeding the nation dry will never stand before The Hague, never sit behind glass in an international courtroom, never be held criminally accountable in the same way.
They will sleep soundly knowing that international law cannot touch them—not because they are innocent, but because their crimes fall outside the narrow definition of “crimes against humanity.”
They are safe. Not because they are righteous.
But because corruption is not in the ICC’s vocabulary.
And that is the Philippines’ most painful injustice.
