I WAS introduced to corruption when I chanced upon my parents talking about my father’s co-worker taking home an office typewriter. We were in grade school then and my mother needed one for her papers in graduate school. I don’t remember the exact dialogue except one of them said “sa gobyerno ina, kawatan mo gobyerno mo, kawatan mo isig katawo mo, gobyerno na kalaban mo.” But the thought of having a typewriter at our small house was as exciting more than having a new toy. On those rare occasions when Papa brought me to his office, I’d fix my eyes on the secretary’s chair praying that she leaves so I can pound the keys of the machine and create perfect letters on clean paper. To me the clattering keys sang of efficiency, of progress, and of everything else modern. I knew there were 5 typewriters in that office and one was always parked in a dusty corner, surely they wouldn’t miss one if Papa brought one home?
Then came Tito Isko, whom we knew worked with the BIR. His laughter was the loudest and the funniest of all the laughter that filled our small home. I’d always laugh because he was laughing even when I had no idea what he was laughing about. But he wasn’t always funny but also wise because he was well-read and loved learning new things. Among the stories he regaled us with were how things have changed during martial law and how abuse has become a way of life. Then I heard the words: graft, corruption, and plunder. They were big words for a grade schooler but in between boisterous yet lovely laughter, Tito Isko made us realize that public service and working for the government meant sacrifice not entitlement, humility and not arrogance, and being morally upright. His favorite example was about a lawyer who’d keep several lovers while married or have affair with other married partners. He’d say not to trust lawyers like that because “why would you trust someone to interpret the law for you if s/he cannot keep a promise, skirts the law, and not even afraid of breaking a promise made before a god?”
When Digong uprooted several people from Davao to work with him in Malacañang, it was understandable that he wanted to be surrounded by people he can trust. He has always maintained he didn’t like living in Manila, would get lost in its concrete jungle and several times, got lost in translation because his Tagalog was as broken as the MRT. So, to untangle some of the mess that a new president inherits upon assuming office, it was understandable that he plucked those that have the same vision and mission, and yes, Bisaya. But this has not really turned out this way.
In recent months, Digong has fired appointees after smelling “whiffs” of corruption. Most recent was a 60-million and 80-million whiffs at the DOT, more smelly millions at the DPWH, and if his recent speech in Cebu is to be believed, some working for the Office of the Government Corporate Counsel, an attached agency of the Department of Justice, have been stinking and have to go. The whiffs have swelled to billows costing billions of taxpayers’ money.
Article XI, Section I of the Philippine Constitution declares that: Public office is a public trust. Public officers and employees must, at all times, be accountable to the people, serve them with utmost responsibility, integrity, loyalty, and efficiency; act with patriotism and justice, and lead modest lives.
But beyond this section in the constitution, how does a person regain and rebuild the trust of other person? How can a friend explain why he traded years of friendship for a moment of bliss? If Digong couldn’t trust them when he needed them most, when can he trust them again? Would he trust them again?
How much is the devil paying for one’s soul? One was paid 30 pieces of silver centuries ago.