The Theater of Indignation

The Senate inquiry into flood control projects has all the makings of a classic Filipino morality play. It’s got heroes and villains, fiery dialogue, and a script that’s all too familiar. But behind the performance, one thing is clear: what we are witnessing is not a genuine pursuit of accountability but a well-rehearsed theater of indignation. It is a “palabas” designed to project moral authority while preserving a corrupt system.

The most jarring element of this spectacle is the glaring hypocrisy. We watch lawmakers, some of whom are facing their own corruption charges, pound tables and feign outrage at contractors. Senator Jinggoy Estrada, still under indictment over the misuse of pork barrel funds, was seen grilling contractor Sarah Discaya. The irony is not lost on a public weary of seeing lawmakers act as judge and jury over others, while the presumption of innocence is conveniently extended only to them. This selective application of justice isn’t an oversight; it’s the very foundation of the performance.

The inquiry’s direction, rather than pointing towards reform or new legislation, veers into the familiar terrain of political grandstanding. Lawmakers like Senator Bong Go, for instance, delivered a wide-eyed performance of innocence while facing questions about his family’s construction businesses. He insists he has nothing to do with their business dealings and that he “never intervened on their behalf,” despite records showing his father’s firm, CLTG Builders, and his brother’s firm, Alfrego, secured hundreds of millions of pesos in public works contracts. The name of the father’s firm, CLTG—an acronym for Christopher Lawrence Tesoro Go—is a detail that speaks volumes. Go’s claim that his family goes to “some politicians but not to me” sounds less like a denial and more like an accidental confession that influence flows elsewhere. It is the language of a system that thrives on deceit and distraction.

A defining moment in this inquiry came when Senator Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa, a key ally of former President Rodrigo Duterte, appeared flummoxed. He asked contractor Sarah Discaya when her firm began doing business with the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH). Her simple answer—“2016”—seemed to catch him off guard. That, of course, was the very year Duterte assumed the presidency. The momentary hesitation and subtle twitch of disbelief on the senator’s face spoke volumes, hinting at an unspoken acknowledgment of the deep political ties that may have facilitated these contracts. It was a fleeting but powerful instance of the performance cracking, revealing the political affiliations behind the scenes.

This spectacle of outrage serves a crucial function: it distracts from the systemic rot. The senators ask questions, but they are often the wrong ones. The ten questions raised by a concerned public should be the real focus: who sat on the bids and awards committees? How much did these contractors donate to political campaigns? Were these projects subcontracted multiple times to create chains of corruption? And, perhaps most crucially, what specific irregularities did the Commission on Audit (COA) flag, and why were they ignored?

The COA, for its part, has already been doing the real work. The agency recently ordered a fraud audit of all flood control projects in Bulacan, where many alleged ghost projects are located. The Bureau of Internal Revenue (BIR) is also conducting a tax fraud audit on contractors to ensure they declared their earnings. These are the steps that actually lead to accountability, not a televised hearing where senators take turns showcasing their indignation.

The contractors, like Mark Allan Arevalo, are held up as symbols of the problem, their stuttering and stammering used as proof of guilt. But this is another misdirection. The incoherence of a contractor is a consequence of a system that rewards silence and punishes honesty. When a contractor is unable to articulate their right against self-incrimination, it is because they have been taught that speaking up against the powerful is a far greater risk than being cited in contempt. The silence of the weak is a testament to the culture of fear, while the silence of the powerful, like Vice President Sara Duterte’s refusal to answer questions on public funds, is celebrated as an act of defiance.

The ultimate tragedy of this inquiry is that it has become an exercise in protecting the very system it claims to investigate. The public gets a front-row seat to a show of justice, but the infrastructure of corruption remains untouched. The flood control projects may be substandard, but the system that shields the powerful is “watertight.” It’s the one infrastructure in this country that never collapses.

We don’t need another circus. We need an independent commission of citizens, scholars, and experts, insulated from the trappings of political power, to conduct this investigation. We need real subpoena power, not just a microphone. We owe it to the countless Filipinos who suffer from the floods, to the ones whose lives are uprooted by the corruption that drains our nation’s resources. Until then, we will remain trapped in a cycle of indignation without consequence.