A snatcher caught with a cellphone in downtown Tacloban is instantly dragged by police, handcuffed, and displayed for the cameras. But a senator caught plundering millions walks into court in a barong, smiling and waving, is treated like a celebrity, and later comes out free as though nothing happened. Such is the grotesque comedy of Philippine justice: small offenders are crushed like ants, while the big crocodiles swim freely in murky waters.
This lopsided reality has long been visible in our streets and headlines. The poor street vendor who occupies a sidewalk for survival is quickly apprehended, his cart seized, his dignity stripped. Yet the contractor who connives with government officials to siphon billions from road projects gets invited to dinners, shakes hands with presidents, and sponsors fiestas. The scale of punishment, it seems, depends not on the crime but on the size of the name attached to it.
The police can chase after pickpockets with an iron fist, but they tiptoe around governors who are drug lords, or generals caught recycling seized shabu. Barangay kagawads can easily lose their posts for petty infractions. Yet, congressmen with ill-gotten mansions in Forbes Park can sleep soundly, knowing cases against them will drag on for decades until witnesses die and evidence evaporates. It is a system that roars against mosquitoes but trembles before elephants.
This is not accidental; it is carefully engineered. The powerful can afford the best lawyers, manipulate legal loopholes, and buy time through endless appeals. They hire spin doctors to polish their public image and media handlers to deflect criticism. Meanwhile, the powerless have no lawyers, no connections, no money to post bail. Their fate is sealed the moment they are caught, condemned not only by the courts but also by the mob’s hunger for spectacle.
What makes this truly despicable is the hypocrisy behind it. The same leaders who preach “rule of law” during their campaigns are the very ones who distort it when their own skins are at stake. They pass laws to penalize petty crimes, all while keeping the doors wide open for large-scale corruption. They speak of discipline for the masses but never impose discipline upon themselves. The law, in their hands, is not blind but selective—wearing glasses that magnify the weak and blur the strong.
There is, however, a bitter humor to this paradox. Imagine a jeepney driver jailed for unpaid traffic fines, while a politician who stole enough to build a hundred flyovers cuts the ribbon for one. Or a man imprisoned for stealing a can of sardines, while a customs officer who smuggles containers of contraband is promoted. The whole nation becomes a stage where justice is a farce, and its actors are clowns in expensive suits.
This upside-down order has poisoned the moral fiber of society. The ordinary Filipino, witnessing the immunity of the powerful, learns to distrust the law. Many begin to think: why follow the rules when those on top can break them without consequence? Cynicism spreads like a virus, eroding respect for institutions. And once that respect is gone, the law is no longer a shield of fairness but merely a stick used by the powerful to beat the powerless.
The way forward is not mysterious; it has been written and spoken of countless times. Laws must bite hardest where crimes are greatest, and enforcement must be blind to rank, wealth, or influence. Until that day comes, the Philippines will continue to be a country where mice are hunted with zeal, but the fattened beasts of corruption roam free, laughing at the very people they were supposed to serve.
