*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
A few nights ago, I found myself staring at my phone long
after a Viber conversation had ended with my friend Paul, an Aide-De-Camp to a
veteran Senator. What began as an ordinary exchange of ideas about government
appointments, governance, corruption, and public service slowly evolved into
something that would keep me awake long after the discussion was over. As we
talked, Paul shared observations that many Filipinos have probably heard
before. There are public discussions about officials who have survived multiple
administrations, alongside allegations circulating online about corruption
involving certain appointees. Concerns persist that some officials identified
with the present administration, as well as holdovers from previous
administrations, continue to occupy influential positions despite recurring
questions from the public. To be fair, allegations are not evidence, and social
media is not a court of law; every public servant deserves due process and
fairness. Yet, public perception matters, and when public distrust becomes
widespread, even honest officials become victims of that distrust.
As our conversation continued, we shifted to the flood
control controversy. For many people, it is simply another political issue, but
for me, it has become a symbol. Every time I see images of flooded communities,
I no longer see only water; I see broken trust, promises that failed to reach
the people, and taxpayers wondering where years of appropriations went. A flood
is not merely water; sometimes it is the visible consequence of invisible
decisions made years earlier. Somewhere tonight, a father is carrying
appliances through floodwaters, a mother is trying to save family documents,
and a student is wondering how to replace books destroyed by another storm.
Somewhere, a taxpayer is asking a simple question: Where did the money go?
Perhaps that is why the flood control issue resonates so deeply. It is no
longer simply about infrastructure; it is about trust. And trust, once broken,
is among the hardest things to rebuild.
As a single father, I could not help but think of my daughter Juliana
Rizalhea. What kind of country will her generation inherit? What kind of
government will they trust, and what kind of leaders will shape their future?
These questions lingered in my mind long after the conversation ended. I could
not sleep—not because Paul had revealed some great secret, but because he had
unintentionally forced me to confront a question I have wrestled with for
years: What if corruption has become stronger than the systems designed to
stop it? What if corruption has become so deeply embedded that it survives
elections, administrations, reforms, and every promise of change? That thought
is frightening.
For decades, governments have introduced reforms—new laws,
new commissions, new technologies, new auditing mechanisms, and new procurement
systems. Yet, corruption remains one of the most persistent challenges
confronting our Republic. Why? Because corruption adapts. It studies every
reform and looks for every weakness. Pass a new law and someone searches for a
loophole; digitize transactions and someone finds a way around the system;
strengthen oversight and someone attempts to influence the overseers. The
painful reality is that almost every anti-corruption solution can eventually be
challenged.
And that realization led me to perhaps the most uncomfortable question I have asked in years: What if corruption can never be completely eliminated? At first, that sounds defeatist, but perhaps it is simply realistic. No nation has ever completely eliminated corruption. The real difference between successful countries and struggling countries is not the absence of corruption; the difference is whether integrity remains stronger than corruption.
As my conversation with Paul was about to end, he suddenly
caught me off guard by saying, “Doc, you should be in government.” I smiled and
replied, “I would love to serve. But I can still help government even without a
position.” The statement sounded simple, but the truth behind it is far more
complicated because Paul unknowingly touched a wound I have carried for years.
The truth is that I have always loved public service, and I
have served before. Years ago, I accepted an invitation to become a Municipal
Councilor. Like many who enter government for the first time, I entered with
idealism. I believed reforms were possible, that integrity mattered, that
corruption could be confronted, and that good people could make a difference.
But reality has a way of testing convictions.
There were meetings where I found myself asking whether
anyone else in the room was as disturbed as I was by what I was seeing. There
were moments when it felt as if I was fighting battles alone—not because there
were no good people in government, for there always are, but because the system
often has a way of isolating those who refuse to compromise.
After that local legilative experience, I chose not to continue. This was not
because I stopped believing in public service, but because I discovered
something painful: integrity alone cannot sustain reform. Integrity must be
defended collectively. One honest person inside a system can inspire change,
but one honest person standing alone eventually becomes exhausted.
To this day, I sometimes wonder whether I made the right
choice. Every time I read about a scandal, see waste, or witness another
controversy, a small voice inside me asks: Could I have made a difference if
I had stayed? Could I have done more if I had remained in government? I do
not know. Perhaps that is a question I will carry for the rest of my life.
What many people do not know is that I have never been
comfortable applying for government positions; the opportunities that came to
me came through invitations. One of those invitations involved a position at
the level of Undersecretary. For many people, such an opportunity would have
been impossible to decline, offering prestige, influence, authority, and a
chance to shape national policy.
Before giving my answer, I asked a simple question: “Who
will be my Secretary?” When I heard the name, I politely declined. Some people
thought I was foolish or wasting an opportunity, and perhaps they were right.
But I asked myself another question: How can I fight corruption if I do not
trust the integrity of the leadership above me? How can I ask others to stand
on principle if I compromise mine from the very beginning?
Some people spend fortunes trying to enter government, but I
walked away from an opportunity because I could not afford the price of
compromising my conscience. Power, titles, and positions are seductive, but
integrity is expensive. Sometimes integrity requires saying no to opportunities
others spend their entire lives pursuing.
Perhaps this is why I have become increasingly convinced
that the Philippines does not suffer from a shortage of laws; rather, the
Philippines suffers from a shortage of integrity. Ang problema natin ay
hindi kakulangan ng batas. Ang problema natin ay kakulangan ng integridad.
The Constitution, laws, regulations, and safeguards are all clear, yet
corruption persists—hindi dahil kulang ang batas, kundi dahil may mga taong
handang baluktutin ang batas para sa pansariling interes.
This is why I continue to believe in what I have often
described as "Integritocracy." Not as a replacement for democracy,
but as a reminder of democracy’s greatest vulnerability. Democracy tells us who
wins; integrity determines what they do after they win.
Perhaps the greatest enemy of the Philippines is no longer
corruption itself, but normalization. The moment people stop becoming shocked
by scandals, corruption wins. The moment people say, “Lahat naman sila
ganyan,” corruption wins. The moment honesty becomes naïve and integrity
becomes laughable, corruption wins. Maybe this is simply wishful thinking,
maybe integrity will never become fashionable in politics, and maybe corruption
will always find ways to survive. But I refuse to believe that cynicism is a
better alternative.
Looking back, perhaps Paul thought he was encouraging me to return to government, but in reality, he left me with a much bigger question: if good people continue refusing to participate because they are discouraged by corruption, who will remain inside the system? To be clear, I do not count myself among those good people; making such a claim would be entirely self-serving. Whether I belong in that company is not for me to decide, but rather for those who know me and those who hate me to judge.
I do not know whether corruption can ever be completely
defeated. Perhaps every law will eventually be challenged, every reform will be
tested, and every system will reveal weaknesses. But that does not mean we
surrender. If there is one thing I fear more than corruption, it is the
possibility that one day my daughter Juliana Rizalhea’s generation will stop
believing that integrity matters.
One day she and millions of young Filipinos will inherit
this Republic. When that day comes, I want to be able to tell her that whether
I was inside government or outside it, whether I held a position or not,
whether I succeeded or failed, I never stopped believing that integrity was
worth fighting for. Because when a nation loses faith in integrity, corruption
no longer needs to defeat it—the nation defeats itself.
#DJOT
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*About the author:
