*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DMgt
There are crimes that take a life in an instant—and there are crimes that kill a nation slowly, piece by piece, soul by soul. Among the most silent murderers of our nation’s hope is systematic corruption—that sophisticated monster hiding behind policies, signatures, and smiles. It does not draw blood, but it drains the lifeblood of our people. It does not shoot bullets, but it pierces the heart of every honest Filipino who still believes that goodness can triumph.
Corruption today is not the same as it once was. It has evolved, matured, and learned to disguise itself as legitimacy. It now dresses well, speaks eloquently, and holds public office. It has accountants who justify theft, engineers who calculate deceit, and legislators who legalize plunder. It moves like a cartel and thinks like a mafia. And if truth were the measure of justice, the Flood Control Scandal within the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH) is not just corruption—it is a grand, organized crime that dwarfs even the earnings of global drug cartels and human traffickers combined.
Billions—sometimes hundreds of billions—disappear into thin air. Projects exist only in glossy documents and photo-ops. Bridges without rivers, flood controls without canals, roads that lead nowhere but to someone’s pocket. The deception is technical, hidden behind bureaucratic words like “insertion,” “realignment,” and “continuing appropriation.” But behind those words is one cruel reality: it is the same old sin—plunder masked as governance.
What makes it more tragic is the scale. Transnational crimes profit from evil deeds, but at least they operate in the shadows. This one steals under the light of government buildings. It steals with authority. The amount lost from the flood control projects of just one department could have modernized our hospitals, built homes for the homeless, or lifted an entire generation of children out of poverty.
And DPWH is just one piece of this larger machinery. This cancer spreads to other agencies, where numbers are manipulated and procedures are weaponized. Behind every inflated budget, there are names—“honorables,” “directors,” “professionals.” They have IDs signed by the Republic, licenses from the PRC, and oaths sworn before God. They are the new breed of organized crime—legal on paper, lethal in reality.
And yet, amidst this darkness, a spark of hope appears. General Benjamin Acorda Jr., newly appointed Executive Director of the Presidential Anti-Organized Crime Commission (PAOCC), steps into this battlefield not against men with guns, but against men with titles. I know him—not only as a former student in the Directorial Staff Course at the Philippine Public Safety College, but as a man molded by silence, strength, and sincerity. He is not loud, but he listens; not flamboyant, but firm. He carries with him not the arrogance of position, but the humility of purpose.
Under his leadership, the PAOCC must rewrite what “organized crime” means. Because today, organized crime does not always wear ski masks. It wears barongs and neckties. It speaks in English and Latin phrases. It sits in hearings, not hideouts. They are “Honorable” because they sit in Congress, “Public Servants” because they sit in high office, and “Professionals” because they carry licenses and diplomas. Some are elected by the people, others are appointed by the President. And yet, behind their polite smiles are hidden networks of deceit.
How do we fight criminals who are called “Your Honor”? How do we arrest thieves who have security escorts and press officers? How do we unmask villains who hold microphones instead of guns? This is the cruel irony of our time—our most dangerous criminals do not run from the law; they write it.
Thus, organized crime must be redefined. It is not only the coordination of illegal acts—it is the systematic, institutionalized abuse of public authority for private gain. It is the conscious and deliberate use of government power to steal from the people under the illusion of legality. And that makes it deadlier than any cartel, because it has the power to control justice, silence investigators, and corrupt even the conscience of the nation.
This kind of crime is cold and cunning. It launders its guilt through respectability. It destroys watchdogs through appointments. It hides under technicalities, and it kills through neglect. It is a crime that doesn’t break in through windows—it enters through the front door, smiling.
I once walked through a flooded barangay, waist-deep in murky water. I saw children laughing and playing, not knowing that their laughter was mixed with the tears of their parents. An old man told me, “Kung nagawa lang ‘yung drainage na pinangako nila, hindi sana kami ganito.” His voice broke—not from the flood, but from years of betrayal. That moment reminded me: corruption is not abstract—it has a face, it has victims, and it kills dreams more than it kills plans.
General Acorda faces not a flood of water, but a flood of deception. Yet, I believe he carries the discipline of a soldier and the soul of a reformer. He must turn PAOCC into a fortress of truth, where the fight against organized crime means not only catching syndicates with guns, but dismantling syndicates in government offices. Because systematic corruption is organized crime—perhaps the most powerful and most destructive kind of all.
For too long, we have been lenient with corruption—calling it “misuse of funds,” or “technical lapses.” No more. It is not mismanagement; it is national betrayal. It is not inefficiency; it is treason disguised as service.
The flood control scandal is not just about missing billions—it is about missing consciences. It is not just about stolen projects—it is about stolen futures. But if men like General Benjamin Acorda Jr. will rise with courage, conscience, and compassion, there is still hope that this nation can be washed clean—not by floodwaters, but by the flood of truth.
Because in the end, the most powerful flood is not that of rain, but of justice. And when truth finally pours, no corruption—no matter how organized—will ever stand against it.
