The epal memo moment

By Herman M. Lagon

It started with a seemingly harmless post—a bright, cheerful poster for Dinagyang 2026 listing twenty-two sporting events under the banner “Mayor Raisa Treñas Sports Fest.” Within hours, Ilonggo netizens did what they do best: laughed, debated, and turned it into a running joke. Fourteen of the twenty-two events bore the mayor’s name, and for a people quick to spot political vanity, it felt off-key. Memes sprouted like street banners after election season. Some teased, others groaned. “Viva Señora Raisa!” became the sarcastic battle cry of the day. Then came the twist: a new executive order prohibiting the use of any incumbent mayor’s name in city-run sports events. The reaction shifted from mockery to mild admiration. The turnaround was swift—and, to some extent, commendable. But for many Ilonggos, the question lingered: did it take a viral embarrassment to remind City Hall what public service should look like?

The word epal, from mapapel, has become a national reflex—a quick diagnosis for politicians who make governance look like a marketing gig. It is not just vanity; it is the slow corrosion of trust. The Commission on Audit (2013) has long banned such practices, calling them “unnecessary expenditure.” Still, drive through any province, and you will find faces printed on bridges, ambulances, even relief goods—visual reminders that some officials treat taxpayers as sponsors. The late Senator Miriam Defensor Santiago (2013) tried to outlaw this habit through her “Anti-Epal Bill,” but the proposal never gained traction. Perhaps the disease has survived this long because those who should cure it are often its carriers.

To be fair, not every epal moment comes from malice. Sometimes it grows from old habits and misplaced gratitude. A private organizer asks to use the mayor’s name “para mas official.” A barangay captain includes his photo on a relief pack “para makilala nga nagabulig man.” A school once printed a donor’s name in bold, not out of pride but out of politeness—to make sure no one felt left out. These gestures seem harmless but gradually teach us that visibility is proof of virtue. Social psychologist Ma. Cecilia Gastardo-Conaco (2019) reminds us that utang na loob and pakikisama—two cherished Filipino values—often blur when power enters the picture. What begins as courtesy can mutate into clout.

This is why Mayor Treñas’s Executive Order No. 114 drew both praise and raised eyebrows. On paper, it was a corrective move—a declaration that sports and service belong to the people, not to any politician. It banned the use of the incumbent mayor’s name in all city-sponsored sports events and required private groups to secure clearance before doing so. Symbolically, it was the right tone. It acknowledged a misstep and tried to set a standard. Yet for skeptics, the memo arrived a little too perfectly timed—after public outrage, not before it. That does not erase its value, but it does remind us how reactive our institutions can be. A more enduring reform would mean embedding humility into systems, not just signatures.

Still, there is something healthy in the way Ilonggos responded. The backlash was not hateful; it was humorous. The memes and comments were more sighs than slurs, a collective way of saying, “We know better now.” Sociologist Nicole Curato (2020) calls this new form of civic engagement “emotional publicness,” where laughter and criticism coexist as democratic tools. The Dinagyang episode proved that social media, when grounded in wit rather than rage, can be an instrument of soft accountability. In this case, the public’s playful ridicule nudged local leaders toward self-awareness. It was democracy expressed through memes—a modern pukpok sa kaldero that echoed through comment sections instead of streets.

The bigger story, however, goes beyond one memo or one mayor. Epal culture thrives not because politicians love publicity but because voters reward it. In a 2025 Social Weather Stations survey, 72 percent of Filipinos admitted they believe politicians publicize projects mainly “para ipakita nga may ginahimo sila,” while only 18 percent think they do so purely for service (SWS, 2025). We have been conditioned to see faces, not functions. This “epalization” of governance shifts gratitude from institutions to individuals, breeding dependence instead of citizenship. Each tarpaulin becomes a subtle reminder that our taxes are favors and our rights are debts.

Examples abound. In Las Piñas, a series of new garbage trucks proudly bore the names of city officials in billboard-sized fonts (Malasig, 2025). In Manila, public clinics became photo walls for aspiring senators. During the pandemic, some aid packages looked more like campaign materials than relief operations. Even national programs such as Bong Go’s Malasakit Centers blurred the line between service and self-promotion (Morra, 2025). It is not only bad optics—it is bad pedagogy. It teaches citizens that leadership is a performance measured by tarpaulins, not transformation. Behavioral economist Dan Ariely (2012) reminds us that meaningful work comes from purpose, not applause. That applies to governance too.

Yet the challenge is not one-sided. Politicians operate in what media theorists now call an “attention economy.” Silence rarely trends; humility does not go viral. Public servants must balance visibility and accountability in a society that equates presence with performance. Meanwhile, local media—often underfunded—depend on familiar faces to draw clicks. It is a system that rewards noise, not nuance. So when a mayor issues an anti-epal order, it feels like a breath of fresh air, even if the air still carries the faint scent of public relations. The real test will be what happens after the festival season ends. Will the next set of posters reflect restraint or relapse?

Teachers might offer the best metaphor for what ethical visibility looks like. A good teacher does not need her name printed on every student’s award. She shapes, she mentors, she lets her learners shine. Leadership, in that sense, is stewardship—showing up for others without making everything about oneself. That is the kind of visibility our democracy needs: presence grounded in purpose, confidence tempered by conscience. When public service is done right, gratitude naturally finds its way home without needing a banner to point it there.

The epal blunder in Iloilo City was embarrassing, yes, but also enlightening. It showed that humility can still win headlines, that leaders can still course-correct, and that citizens are paying attention. But it also warned us not to confuse a memo with a miracle. Culture change takes more than one executive order; it takes a collective decision to end the performance of politics itself. The hope now is that this incident—half comedy, half cautionary tale—marks a quiet shift toward maturity in governance. True leadership does not erase a name from a poster only to print it elsewhere. It learns to let others own the victory. And if Iloilo can laugh, reflect, and move forward, maybe the rest of the country still has a fighting chance to outgrow epal once and for all.

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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.