*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD
As I drove through the flood-prone areas of Barangay Tumana in Marikina on my way to a meeting at Gateway Mall in Cubao, Quezon City, I felt the crushing weight of our nation’s sorrow. The sight of communities constantly vulnerable to rising waters reminded me of a painful truth: the very agency tasked with preventing such suffering—the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH)—has betrayed its mission.
DPWH, entrusted with building our roads, bridges, and flood control systems, should be a shield for the people. Instead, the flood control scandal has exposed it as a breeding ground for corruption. What used to be whispers about undersecretaries, congressmen, and contractors has now reached senators themselves. Tomorrow, it may spread further still.
This is not merely about one project or one administration.
DPWH is the backbone of our nation’s infrastructure, responsible for billions
in taxpayer funds. But when those funds are stolen, when flood control becomes
flood profiteering, it is not only communities like Tumana that drown—it is the
people’s faith in government itself. Corruption here is no passing scandal. It
is a disease that has outlived presidents, thrived across terms, and eaten its
way into the very heart of the system.
And then comes the hardest blow: the Speaker of the House, the fourth most powerful figure in government, accused as mastermind. A bodyguard—just a man tasked to protect his boss—stood as witness to suitcases full of billions, money carried like ordinary cargo. Meanwhile, the poor line up for jobs, scrape for a day’s wage, and hope to bring home a little food. While one mother counts coins for rice, these politicians count billions in cash. Tell me, how can one not feel betrayed?
On September 21, the people shouted back. They filled the streets, angry but determined. It was not a rally for any candidate or a call to seat the Vice President—it was a cry against corruption itself. A plea for dignity. But this is not just about the legislature. Long before, the judiciary had already lost the people’s trust when it brushed aside the impeachment case of Vice President Sara Duterte. And now the legislature joins the fall. What happens when both our lawmakers and our judges are distrusted? What faith is left for the Filipino?
The betrayal goes deeper. Undersecretaries, district engineers, and even the Executive Secretary—our so-called “Little President”—are named in testimonies. If even the President’s right hand is implicated, who else is compromised? Who else has dipped their fingers into the people’s coffers? Ordinary Filipinos are left to ask: is there anyone left in government we can trust?
I hear the desperation growing. In Mendiola, there were voices that shouted: burn Malacañang, start a revolution. Some look to Nepal, where the people themselves tore down a corrupt system and forced a new face of leadership, a new constitution, through violent mass action. For now, our country has been spared such violence because Filipinos still hold on to faith in God and process. But let us not fool ourselves—if no change comes, if no reform begins, then the fire of desperation will grow hotter. The day may come when people no longer wait for process, when they themselves will force a reckoning.
And that thought chills me. Because while one child begs in the streets for food, while a father breaks his back for 200 or 400 pesos a day, while families count every peso just to survive, these leaders smuggle away wealth that cannot be earned even in a hundred lifetimes. Suitcases of money. Billions carried like bags of rice. How can this not push people to the brink?
Mr. President, the burden is on you. You still have time, but not much. If you want the people to believe again, if you want to salvage even a fragment of trust, start by facing your own house. Replace your Cabinet. Sweep away those who abuse your trust and use their offices as dens of theft. 2028 is not far, (unless there will be a snap election.) What legacy will you leave? A nation gasping in betrayal—or a nation that remembers you as the leader who dared to clean his own ranks?
But let me be honest: replacing Cabinet members will not heal everything. The rot is not just in the names. It is in the system, in the Constitution itself. This Constitution was built to shield oligarchs, to protect dynasties, to enrich the rich and bury the poor. It even safeguards foreign interests before Filipino dignity. As long as this Constitution lives, the cycle of plunder will continue.
That is why reform must be twofold. First, change the Cabinet. Show the people that integrity and competence, not loyalty and politics, are your measure. Second, call for a Constitutional Convention. But not one filled with politicians—for if they write our future, they will only write their own protection. Let the sectors of society—the youth, the farmers, the workers, the women, the marginalized—be the architects of our new charter. Only then can we build a constitution truly born of the people.
This is the choice before you, Mr. President if only you can hear me. I am pleading. Change your Cabinet, call for a Convention, or risk letting history choose for you. If you delay, if you protect the corrupt, if you hide behind silence, then do not be surprised if the people themselves follow Nepal’s path. Because a hungry, betrayed, and enraged nation will not stay silent forever.
We stand now at a crossroad. Either we act with courage and dignity—or we are swept away by chaos and rage. Let us choose reform before reform is forced upon us. Let us choose peace before violence chooses us.
The Philippines cannot remain bound to betrayal. It is time
for courage. It is time for reform. It is time to prove that this nation,
wounded as it is, still deserves dignity.
