God, gold, and a get-out-of-jail card

By The Sunriser

There’s a special kind of spectacle unfolding in our political landscape, and as someone who watches both the news and a screen full of code, I find it uniquely fascinating. It’s the grand theater of tainted souls trying to buy their way to salvation, a show that’s both tragic and, if you look closely, a little bit funny.

They say politics is a game of chess, but here in our corner of the world, it often looks more like a frantic race to buy a get-out-of-jail-free card. The earthquake metaphor is spot-on. We’ve seen it time and again: a politician or a contractor builds a reputation on a shaky foundation of “tainted money,” and when a scandal hits—boom!—the whole thing crumbles.

And what do they do when the ground shakes? They double down on the one thing they seem to understand: a transaction.

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It’s a tale as old as time, or at least as old as the modern Filipino political system. A contractor, let’s call him a “benefactor,” makes a fortune on a flood control project that, ironically, doesn’t actually control floods. His next move? A calculated investment in what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu would call “symbolic capital.”

It’s a desperate scramble for legitimacy, not a simple act of charity. Think of it as a spiritual panic buy. You can almost hear the thought process: “My reputation is collapsing like a poorly-built building. Quick, find a church! Find a soup kitchen! Donate a fleet of vehicles!”

The tragedy is that they expect this to work. It’s as if they believe that a few pesos and a well-placed photo can wash away the dirt from their souls and their bank accounts. They are, in a sense, trying to pay a divine bribe.

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And now to the fantastic point about the difference between returning a donated truck and an entire church. A truck is a tangible, albeit embarrassing, thing to give back. But what do you do with a church built with illicit money? Do you tear it down, brick by tainted brick? It’s a fantastic, almost satirical image: a contractor standing in front of a newly built church, sweat on his brow, looking at the building he can’t give back because it’s a monument to his misdeeds.

This all exposes the fragility of a system where respect is a commodity for sale. It reveals the uncomfortable truth that some of our institutions—be they churches, universities, or even award-giving bodies—have, at times, become gatekeepers of legitimacy for those who can pay the price.

This isn’t to say that all donations are suspect, but when the donor is at the center of a massive corruption scandal, it’s fair to ask questions. It’s a sad state of affairs when the act of giving is viewed not as an act of grace but as a transaction for absolution.

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This crisis of institutional credibility is both destructive and, strangely, hopeful. We’re in the aftermath of an earthquake—a metaphorical one, triggered by a flood of corruption. We’re sifting through the rubble of reputations and institutions. And what we find is a system built on a flimsy foundation.

But here’s the thing about ruins: they make space for something new. Perhaps this outrage isn’t just a wave of anger; maybe it’s the start of an ethical counterculture that demands real change, not just a cosmetic cover-up. Maybe we can finally build a society where legitimacy is earned through integrity, not purchased with ill-gotten gains.

It’s a long shot, I know. But as we watch these flimsy reputations crumble, we have a clear view of the cracks in our system. And that, my friends, is where the real work of rebuilding begins.

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Why ‘It’s Not About Politics’ is always a political statement

Me and my political science training: A statement like “it was never about politics” from a politician is like a siren song.

My professors would call this a textbook case of populist rhetoric, but I prefer to think of it as a masterclass in political magic spell a la “Wingardium Leviosa”.

You see, for us students of political science, politics isn’t a dirty word. It’s the engine of society. It’s the art of who gets what, when, and how. To hear a politician say their campaign, which is the very essence of that art, isn’t political? It’s almost comical. It’s like a chef saying their cooking isn’t about food, it’s about making people happy. Sure, making people happy is the goal, but you get there by preparing food.

This kind of statement assumes we, the voters, are a bit naïve. It says, “Don’t look at the fundraising, the endorsements, the strategy sessions. Just look at the tears and the heartfelt stories.” It’s a very effective move. It seeks to bypass our rational, critical thinking and go straight for the emotional gut punch. After all, it’s much easier to connect with the image of a teary-eyed politician listening to a mother’s plea than to dissect a complicated political platform.

When a politician says, “It’s about the people,” what they’re really doing is trying to be “one of us.” They’re crafting an image of a reluctant leader, someone who was so moved by the plight of their constituents that they simply had no choice but to enter the cutthroat world of politics. It’s a powerful narrative, but let’s be real. Nobody stumbles into an election. It’s a deliberate and highly political act just like the “Great Schism” of March 2024 and the “Ultimate Compromise” of October 2024.

So, while I appreciate the emotional appeal, as a student of the game, I can’t help but admire the strategy behind it. It’s the ultimate political move: use the political system to get power, while simultaneously claiming to be above it all.