*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I have come to realize that the flood control scandal in this country was never hidden—not from me, and not from anyone who truly wanted to see. It was not buried in classified documents or concealed behind silence. It stood there in plain sight, bold and documented, pressed carefully against what I now understand as a friction wall. Like an object forced against a wall with no glue or nails, it looked stable enough to ignore, secure enough to tolerate, and convincing enough to let time pass without consequence. But physics teaches a simple truth I can no longer unsee: nothing held only by pressure is ever truly secure. Gravity never stops pulling, even when everything appears still.
When I think about the friction wall trick, I see how an object stays suspended not because it is attached, but because constant force is applied. The wall pushes back, creating friction just strong enough to resist gravity—for a while. But that balance is temporary. Tiny vibrations, fatigue, and the quiet erosion of time slowly weaken the grip. Static friction always has a limit. When it finally gives way, even slightly, the illusion collapses. The fall only looks sudden because the slipping was ignored.
That, to me, is exactly how the flood control scandal survived. I saw the budgets published, the projects announced, and the signboards standing proudly along riverbanks that would later overflow and erase entire communities. I watched hearings convened, investigations promised, and reports prepared. Everything was visible—just enough to create the feeling that something was being done, just enough to slow outrage. The system did not deny corruption; it overwhelmed it with process. Responsibility was diluted across agencies, committees, and signatures until public anger no longer knew where to push. Like the object on the wall, outrage stayed suspended—held there by friction, not resolved by justice.
Then there was the money. Billions meant to protect lives from floods were siphoned away, and yet even that stolen wealth lived in a strange, suspended state. I realized that the money, like the object on the wall, was never truly free. It could not move openly. It could not be spent without fear. It could not be enjoyed without consequence. Every peso taken demanded more pressure to keep it hidden—more shell companies, more protection, more silence. What was stolen to guarantee comfort slowly became a burden.
Time did what it always does. I saw allies lose power. I saw paper trails resurface. Whispers hardened into evidence. The same billions once meant to buy influence became radioactive—too dangerous to touch, too visible to deny. Accounts froze. Assets were traced. Figures once whispered turned into case numbers. Wealth meant to secure freedom became the weight that pulled its owners toward jail cells. Corruption did not collapse because someone pushed harder, but because friction could no longer hold.
And all the while, the floods kept returning. Year after year, the same rivers rose. The same communities drowned. The same “completed” flood control projects failed when they were needed most. Water became testimony. No press release could stop it. No committee could delay it. Reality, like gravity, kept pulling the truth back into view.
This is where the lesson stopped being just about governance and became about life itself. I have seen how those who rise through corruption often appear suspended high on the wall—visible, untouchable, admired by some, and feared by many. They seem secure because pressure holds them there: power, connections, intimidation, money. But they are never truly attached. They do not stand on solid ground; they are merely pressed against it by forces that must never weaken. And time always weakens them. Allies tire. Protection fades. Fear loosens its grip. Gravity—quiet, patient, unarguable—keeps pulling.
When they fall, it is not because life is cruel. It is because life is honest. What is not built on integrity cannot remain aloft forever. The ground is not waiting in anger; it is waiting in truth. The fall is not punishment—it is consequence.
What still haunts me about the flood control scandal is not simply that corruption existed, but that we were trained to endure it—to mistake delay for justice, suspension for stability, and friction for accountability. But physics teaches me otherwise. Systems built on pressure rather than integrity do not last. Stability without honesty is not strength; it is strain.
In the end, gravity always wins. Not because it is violent, but because it is patient. And truth behaves the same way. It pulls quietly, relentlessly, until the wall can no longer hold, until the hands grow tired, until everything propped up by deception finally falls. The flood control scandal was never a secret. I now see that it was merely suspended—waiting for gravity to finish what time had already begun.
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