A woman sold her vote for P500 and a pack of instant noodles. That same afternoon, she was rushing home, carrying two kilos of rice wrapped in a campaign shirt. “At least, may pamugas-bugas,” she muttered. And that, right there, is the sore truth: money—not merit, not morals—still decides who sits in power. I cannot accept this as normal.
Every election season, the circus comes to town. You see them—candidates suddenly oozing with charm, their smiles wide enough to rival a full moon, their hands extended not to serve but to give: envelopes, groceries, coins like communion. And the people, hardened by hunger and habit, receive these like pilgrims who’ve long stopped believing in saints but still kneel at the altar of survival. It’s easy to cast blame, but it’s not that simple. This isn’t just about greed—it’s about desperation. But while poverty explains the problem, it should never justify it.
What troubles me deeply is that this culture of “kwarta-kumbati” has endured like a stubborn weed that no amount of good weather or Sunday mass can kill. The clever ones say, “Kuhaa an kwarta, pero ayaw iboto,” but we all know that rarely happens. The transaction, though unspoken, is complete the moment the hand receives the bill.
Democracy is not a market, and yet our ballots are bartered like fish in a public talipapa—some go for P300, others P1,000, depending on how tight the race is. The more they pay, the more they prove they’ve got something to hide. But voters still dance to the tune of the highest bidder, as if leadership were a cockfight and they’re just betting on who struts better.
This isn’t new. From barangay chairs to senators, the unwritten rule remains: those who have the gold, rule. Our elections have become a game of logistics, not leadership. It’s about who has more motorcades, who prints more tarps, who hires more coordinators to whisper sweet promises into every purok. Platforms? Principles? Those are optional. We’ve raised a generation of politicians who campaign not with vision but with vouchers, and a generation of voters who’ve mistaken short-term gain for long-term governance. This isn’t just the weakening of trust—it’s the collapse of the very soul of democracy.
Some may argue that people take the money because they’re poor, and yes, that’s part of it. But we cannot keep romanticizing poverty as an excuse for surrender. I grew up with neighbors who didn’t have electricity but still refused to sell their votes. They understood that integrity isn’t about having more but about wanting better. It’s the same reason why you don’t drink seawater even when you’re dying of thirst—it won’t save you; it’ll only kill you faster. Money may fill a pot for a day, but what kind of leader will poison the well that feeds you?
I find it telling that the loudest campaigns are often the most hollow. The ones who flood the streets with streamers are usually the same ones who avoid public debates like the plague. Because why speak sense when you can buy silence? Why defend your record when you can drown dissent in disco music and campaign giveaways? Somewhere along the way, we’ve confused generosity with governance. But true leadership is not in what they give before the elections; it’s in what they deliver after the applause dies down.
It hurts me—truly—that we’ve taught our youth to think of elections as fiesta time rather than sacred civic duty. That we’ve passed down not the value of discernment, but the art of deal-making. The vote, that precious little rectangle of hope, has been reduced to a receipt. We are not choosing shepherds; we are selling the sheep. And every time we do, we forfeit our right to complain, because we handed over power not to the worthy, but to the wealthy.
What this country needs is not another lecture about good governance—it needs citizens who can’t be bought. The change we want won’t arrive in envelopes; it will rise from people who see past the peso signs and finally vote with principle, not price tags. Until then, we will remain exactly where we are—clapping for clowns, praying for miracles, and wondering why nothing ever changes.
