A grant that buys accountability

By Francis Allan L. Angelo

Daily Guardian just landed something rare for a provincial newsroom: an international grant that usually goes to outlets with bigger names, bigger markets, and louder megaphones.

To be blunt, we are the first, and so far the only, Iloilo-based newsroom on the International Fund for Public Interest Media’s new list of Philippine grantees.

And before anyone jumps to conclusions, this was not a quick “congrats, here’s the money” kind of deal.

IFPIM put Daily Guardian through intense and extensive due diligence to test whether we are truly independent, not just in name, but in the stuff that actually matters: ownership, operations, governance, and editorial policies.

They looked at how decisions are made, what guardrails exist, how we handle conflicts of interest, and whether the newsroom can stand up to pressure when it counts.

We hurdled that process, and I’m saying it plainly because in this climate, independence is not something you claim, it is something you prove.

That matters, not because we want a ribbon, but because it’s a reminder that community newsrooms are fighting for oxygen on several fronts at once, and the consequences don’t stay “local.”

In many places, the crisis is plain economics. Ad money has thinned out, audiences are scattered across platforms that don’t pay for reporting, and a small newsroom can be one bad quarter away from shutting down.

Then there’s the security side, the quiet intimidation that doesn’t always make headlines but changes what gets pursued, what gets delayed, what gets dropped.

And yes, the political pressure is real, especially in the provinces, where some local leaders treat journalism like a house organ and want more “positive coverage” or, worse, a steady diet of praise releases.

At the same time, we can’t pretend the threats only come from the outside.

When pay is unstable and the work is relentless, ethical shortcuts start to look “practical” to people who are exhausted or underpaid, and that’s how you get the dangerous blur between reporting and influence work.

Moonlighting as consultants, PR managers, political commentators-for-hire, or account executives. Side arrangements with special interests. Envelopes that get rationalized as “help,” “allowance,” or “pakikisama.”

All of that corrodes public trust faster than any angry Facebook post ever could.

So when international support shows up, the real value is more than prestige. It’s the chance to keep community media alive long enough to rebuild the basics, protect independence, and raise the floor on ethics and accountability, including our own.

A quick word about who IFPIM is, because that part also matters.

IFPIM is only a few years old, launched in 2022, and it exists for one blunt reason: public interest journalism is collapsing in too many countries, especially in low- and middle-income settings, and the market is not saving it.

They are not a single-donor outfit, and they are not some one-country program. They pool support from governments and philanthropic donors, then try to funnel that money into independent newsrooms without turning those newsrooms into donor pets.

That “without strings” part is the whole point. The Fund has a governance setup meant to keep a buffer between money and editorial decisions.

There is a board that sets strategy and signs off on funding directions. There is a council made up of institutional funders and partners that handles oversight and accountability.

Then there is a secretariat that does the day-to-day work, including the tedious but necessary checks, vetting, compliance, and monitoring. It is designed to scale, meaning it can manage lots of grants without ballooning into a bloated bureaucracy.

The board is co-chaired by Maria Ressa, the Nobel Peace Prize winner and Rappler co-founder, and Sir Mark Thompson, now the CEO of CNN and a long-time newsroom executive.

It is not a guarantee that everything will be flawless, because nothing in the real world is, but it tells you what kind of lane they are trying to stay in: independent journalism that can take heat, publish uncomfortable facts, and keep going.

And that matters, because the support is not framed as a one-off “project.” It is positioned as core funding, the kind that lets a newsroom spend on the unglamorous essentials that protect independence: staffing, editing systems, safety and legal readiness, data and archiving, and the basic breathing room to follow a story past the first headline.

The International Fund says it will support 10 Philippine media organizations “as of 2025” with grants ranging from USD 10,000 to USD 220,000, meant to bolster “trustworthy, ethical, fact-based journalism.”

If you’re allergic to foreign funding, I get it, because Filipinos have good reason to be wary of outside influence.

But treating every journalism grant as a Trojan horse is lazy thinking, and it helps exactly the people who prefer newsrooms weak, broke, and distracted.

This is not charity, and definitely not some “save the poor provinces” narrative either. It’s an investment in democracy, the boring, everyday kind, where people ask questions about procurement, schools, roads, permits, and the small local decisions that quietly shape how we live.

Ivygail Ong, the Fund’s regional director for Asia and the Pacific, put it in plain language: “Independent media organizations in the Philippines have an essential role to play to inform communities across the country about issues that matter for them.” (ifpim.org)

That line lands harder when you remember the environment we work in. The Philippines ranked 116th out of 180 in the 2025 World Press Freedom Index, and RSF notes that harassment, threats, and red-tagging persist, with criminal defamation and cyberlibel still carrying prison time.

If you want a single human face for how ugly it can get, look at Frenchie Mae Cumpio’s case, which has drawn international condemnation as a press-freedom issue.

Now layer that with a country wired for manipulation. In the Reuters Institute Digital News Report 2025, overall trust in news in the Philippines sat at 38%, and public anxiety about misinformation keeps climbing.

And it’s not just domestic noise. Reuters has reported on influence operations aimed at the Philippines, including campaigns designed to shape narratives and erode trust.

So when a fund says, “We’re putting money into verified local reporting,” I don’t hear charity. I hear someone finally paying for the defensive line that communities outside Manila have been asked to maintain for years, with duct tape budgets and the stubbornness of a handful of reporters.

Which brings me to the second point people don’t like to admit: regional equity in information is a national issue, not a regional complaint.

The Fund’s Philippine grantees run the map, from Western Visayas print-to-digital (that’s us in Daily Guardian) to Palawan’s reporting amid the West Philippine Sea dispute, to Mindanao outlets covering conflict, peace processes, disasters, and climate impacts.

That geographic spread is the story. Because when provinces become news deserts, you don’t just lose “local color.” You lose the watchdog who notices that the bidding was weird, the flood control project looks suspiciously familiar, the clinic ran out of supplies again, the relocation site has no water, the disaster funds keep moving but the evacuation center never gets finished.

Information inequality mirrors service inequality, and it’s easier to neglect people when no one is consistently writing down the receipts.

Also, local outlets report differently, and I don’t mean better as in “we’re saints.” I mean we’re there when the mayor’s promises start to fray, when the road stays broken after the photo-op, when the cleanup drive ends and the trash returns.

National media can parachute in, and sometimes they do excellent work, but they can’t sit on every beat across more than 7,600 islands.

Forgive me, but that’s not a criticism, it’s plain math. The Philippine media economy has been pushing audiences and advertisers toward platforms that don’t fund journalism, don’t do local verification, and don’t pay for the boring follow-through.

Which leads to the third angle, the one I care about most: core funding is the quiet revolution.

The Fund emphasizes “core funding” that lets outlets “adapt, innovate, and strengthen their editorial independence,” not just run a one-off project and submit a pretty report at the end.

Anyone who’s run a newsroom knows why that matters. Project money can be useful, but it’s often too neat for the mess we actually deal with.

The real costs of watchdog journalism are hardly glamorous. Payroll stability, legal support, safety training, data storage, better editing systems, a more secure way to communicate with sources, and the ability to say, “We can keep digging next week,” instead of shutting down the story because the electricity bill is due.

Core funding buys time, and time is what power hates. It’s also what allows us to fix the unsexy parts of newsroom work that audiences never see, like archiving, verification workflows, corrections policy, and training younger reporters so they don’t burn out in two years.

IFPIM says it has supported more than 140 media organizations in 34 countries, and it’s explicitly pushing for a “paradigm shift” in how public-interest media is resourced.

Fine, but here’s the part where we should be honest: grants are a bridge, not a business model. A newsroom living on donor oxygen forever is not independence, it’s just a different kind of dependency.

So the question becomes: what do we do with the runway? For Daily Guardian, it means using this moment to build revenue that comes from the community we serve, without pretending it’s easy.

Memberships can work, but only if we’re transparent about what people are paying for: reporting capacity, not access to a “club.”

Events and collaborations can help, especially around civic education, disaster preparedness, and local economic literacy, but they have to be done without turning journalism into a stage show.

Local advertising has to evolve too, because too much of it is still stuck in a patronage mindset, where ads are treated as favors and coverage is treated as a return.

Regulators and policymakers also have homework. Are we doing enough to ensure fair competition, so regional journalism can survive without perpetual rescue funding?

Other countries are at least exploring the question of platform power and market distortion, and we shouldn’t pretend the Philippines is immune to the same structural squeeze.

If we want less disinformation, less corruption, and more functional local governance, we can’t starve the one industry whose job is to verify claims in public.

That’s the heart of why this grant matters to us and the community.

Not because a foreign institution “noticed” us. But because it recognizes what people in the regions have known for a long time: accountability doesn’t start in Imperial Manila. It starts in city halls, municipal halls, school boards, electric co-ops, district offices, and the quiet corners where decisions get made when no one is watching.

So yes, be skeptical, ask questions, demand transparency. We should publish how these funds are used, what systems we build, and what guardrails we set to protect editorial independence, because sunlight works on us, too.

But don’t reduce this to a cheap talking point about foreigners meddling. If we’re serious about democracy, we should be serious about the local journalism that makes democracy real, especially outside the capital.

And if this grant helps one provincial newsroom hold the line a little longer, train a few more reporters, build sturdier systems, and chase a few more stories to their uncomfortable end, then that’s not charity.

That’s a democracy investment, and frankly, we could use more of it.