*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
“Corruption doesn’t begin with a bribe — it begins with a gift.” #DJOT
That simple truth has haunted public service for generations. In a culture where generosity often disguises expectation, and courtesy blurs into compromise, the thin line between gratitude and greed fades fast. A box of sweets becomes a favor owed; a token of thanks becomes a silent investment. And from these small gestures, entire systems of corruption are born.
Amid the growing spotlight on bribery and “gift-giving” in the flood control scandals, one city quietly reminded the country that integrity doesn’t always need a grand announcement — sometimes, it only takes a woman who once walked with slippers through the narrow streets of Naga, listening more than talking.
Leni Robredo, now Mayor of Naga City, has never been one for theatrics. Her Executive Order No. 58, issued on October 22, didn’t come with drumbeats or flashing cameras. It was simple, precise, and powerful — a clear statement that in her city, ethics would not depend on convenience. The “No Gift Policy” she institutionalized drew a bold line between gratitude and graft, between courtesy and corruption. It banned the acceptance — directly or indirectly — of any gift, favor, service, or token connected to one’s official function.
It was, in essence, a daily declaration of honesty. The kind that cannot be legislated by Congress but can be practiced in the quiet conscience of a public servant. It was not just a policy. It was a promise — that Naga would once again live by example.
Robredo’s order covered everything: from procurement to licensing, from inspections to recruitment. It even anticipated the subtler forms of corruption — gifts routed through family members, friends, or agents. Yet, the brilliance of the policy lay in its humanity. It did not outlaw affection, nor did it criminalize kindness. Gifts born out of genuine family love or simple tokens of courtesy were still permitted, but they had to be declared, recorded, and made transparent. In that process, Robredo turned transparency from a word into a habit.
At the heart of her EO was a mechanism for accountability — the Accountability Review Committee. This was not a symbolic body; it was a practical safeguard. It ensured that any gift exceeding nominal value would be documented, reported, and disposed of properly. The walls of City Hall would bear “No Gift Policy” posters, not as warnings but as reminders that integrity must be visible, even in the corners of bureaucracy.
And perhaps this is what makes her leadership so disarmingly human. She doesn’t moralize; she simply lives the morality she preaches. Her statement echoed with quiet conviction: “Public office is a public trust.”
A few hundred kilometers away, Kidapawan City has been walking the same path under Mayor Pao Evangelista. On his first day in office, he told everyone — no gifts, no tips, no favors. He understood that the salary paid by taxpayers was enough honor for any servant of the people. He banned titles like “Honorable,” reminding everyone that service was a duty, not a privilege. Every procurement session in Kidapawan is livestreamed, allowing the people to watch democracy unfold in real time.
When I heard about that, I thought of how simplicity can sometimes restore faith. Evangelista’s government even banned photos and names of politicians on public projects — a small act, but symbolically profound. It stripped politics of vanity and returned the spotlight to the people it served.
Further south, in Davao City, this moral discipline is not new. Vice President Sara Duterte, long before she rose to national prominence, carried a similar principle as mayor — a total rejection of gifts, favors, or any form of preferential treatment. Even abroad, her allies attest, she lives by that code. The Duterte family’s governance in Davao institutionalized modesty: no names on tarpaulins, no faces on relief goods, no credit claimed for acts that were public duty. The city’s Executive Order No. 09, issued under Vice Mayor Baste Duterte, continued that tradition — removing the last traces of political self-promotion in government signage and donations.
It’s fascinating how, in the midst of scandals that have drowned national faith in institutions, it is the local governments that are quietly keeping that faith alive. Naga, Kidapawan, and Davao — cities far apart in geography but united in moral geography — show that reform doesn’t need to start in the Senate or the Palace. It can begin in a single office where a mayor refuses a box of chocolates offered after a signed permit, or where a clerk returns a gift basket on Christmas, smiling but firm.
These are small acts, invisible to the headlines, but they are revolutions in miniature. They breathe life into the words of Republic Acts 3019 and 6713 — the Anti-Graft and Ethical Standards laws that too often gather dust in government shelves. In these cities, the law walks the streets, speaks in offices, and lives in the daily gestures of public servants who choose conscience over convenience.
When one reads about the billions siphoned from flood control projects and the endless commissions tucked into “standard procedures,” it becomes easy to despair. But then one remembers that in Naga, a mayor once stood in front of her employees and said, “Public trust is sacred.” And in that single sentence, she gave back something that corruption had stolen — the belief that honesty still has a place in governance.
Politics, in the end, is not about power. It is about example. And in a time when people have learned to expect less from their leaders, Leni Robredo’s quiet insistence on decency is not just refreshing — it is revolutionary.
And so the quote comes full circle. Corruption, indeed, begins with a gift — but in cities like Naga, it also ends with the courage to say “no.”
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