Kurakot, meet shame!

By Herman M. Lagon

Shame is stitched into Filipino life. A child forgets to say “po” or “opo” and gets called “walang hiya” or “walang modo.” A student caught cheating lowers his head as classmates whisper. Even in barangay basketball, a player who fakes an injury or flops is booed—not for the foul, but for the loss of respect. Shame is a compass. Yet when the stakes are higher—ghost flood projects, bloated dredging, padded medicine deals—the compass suddenly spins, as if north has disappeared. What Karen Davila calls “Kurakot shaming” is a plea to reset that compass, to remind those in power that shame still counts.

The flood-control mess is not just about lost billions. It is about muddy classrooms in Pampanga, where teachers stack hollow blocks to hold classes above the waterline. It is about families in Calumpit, Bulacan, piling sandbags every storm while “finished” projects sit only on paper. Budget records show allocations swelling from PHP 141 billion in 2021 to nearly PHP 350 billion in 2024. Still, the floods rise, mocking the numbers. Economist JC Punongbayan notes the paradox: bigger budgets, little relief. What people feel is not just anger but humiliation—being treated like fools with their own money.

That sting matters. Scholars like June Tangney explain the difference: guilt says, “I did something bad,” shame says, “I am bad.” In politics, shame deters. Richard Nixon resigned not only because of law but because Americans would not accept a shameless leader. In Germany, Chancellor Willy Brandt knelt in Warsaw to embody his nation’s shame, rebuilding trust. Contrast that with leaders today who shrug off scandals and double down. Shamelessness has become armor. “Kurakot shaming” is meant to pierce that armor—not with cruelty, but with clarity: you broke trust, and it is disgraceful.

Celebrities have given this sting a face. Vice Ganda posted about reheated adobo in London, stung by taxes “pinagpipyestahan ng mga garapal na magnanakaw.” Anne Curtis echoed Jessica Soho’s words: greed, not floods, will sink us. Nadine Lustre mourned lost homes and pets while funds vanished. Their value is not in moral authority, but in turning outrage into everyday pictures: cold food, wet slippers, ruined classrooms. They remind us corruption is not abstract; it seeps into dinner tables, barangay halls, and classrooms. Shame, then, works like soap—disinfecting public talk.

But shame must be handled with care. Social psychology warns that wild shaming can backfire, driving denial instead of reform. We have seen politicians cry “political harassment” or file libel cases when cornered. That is why shame works best when precise. Naming the project, the cost, the contractor, the missing wall—these details leave little room for excuses. When Bulacan residents say, “Wala kaming nakikita,” after a PHP 77-million project, that is not slander. That is fact.

Teachers know this instinct. Shame in classrooms is used sparingly, as a reminder, not a weapon. When a child copies homework, the goal is not to brand him a cheater forever but to guide him back to honesty. Society can do the same. “Kurakot shaming” is not public stoning. It is civic mentoring. It tells leaders: the trust you hold is not applause on cue, but accountability when broken.

What frightens me most is the quiet. In one forum, Mayor Benjie Magalong put “leakage” at about 40 percent. Senator Ping Lacson has claimed it reaches 60 percent. Over coffee with my fraternity brothers in the DPWH, I often hear the same tired shrug: “Ganyan na ‘yan.” The normalizing is the rot. The figures are shocking, but the bigger tragedy is how they are treated as normal. “SOP” and “for the boys” have become jokes. Jokes kill shame. When shame fades, impunity takes its place. That is why President Marcos Jr.’s line in his SONA—“Mahiya naman kayo sa inyong kapwa Pilipino”—cut deep, whether or not he truly meant it. It was more than a budget issue. It was a question of conscience.

Some say shame is not enough, that laws should do the job. But the truth is both are needed. Courts punish, shame deters. Cases in the Sandiganbayan drag on for years, but public outrage spreads overnight. Even when SALNs are restricted, citizen talk can pry them open. Until institutions speed up, public shaming is civic pressure. Not revenge, but first aid.

As a father, teacher, and counselor, I know shame works best when paired with reflection. The real lesson is not “you failed,” but “remember who you are responsible to.” Politics is no different. The true power of “Kurakot shaming” is not the hashtag but the hope that someone in office still blushes when reminded of conscience. That blush can spark reform.

Two trillion pesos have been poured into flood control, yet communities still drown. The real flood is not water but mistrust. To stem it, we need audits, faster courts, and honest contractors. But alongside those, we need the discipline of shame. Not the toxic kind that bullies, but the civic kind that teaches. Calling out corruption is not mere venting. It is cleansing. And in a country drowning in both water and excuses, that is hygiene we cannot skip.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.