The law in this country is like a blindfolded figure who keeps peeking from one side to the other, deciding whose misdeeds are worth her time. She sees every petty thief, every hapless vendor violating sidewalk ordinances, but the moment a powerful figure steals from government coffers, she pretends to be completely blind. It’s a cruel joke how justice seems to punish only those who cannot afford to defend themselves while letting the rich and powerful walk away with blood still dripping off their hands.
I’ve often wondered if the law here carries a price tag. It feels like it does, with loopholes tailored for the well-connected and cages reserved for the penniless. Take, for instance, that time when a tricycle driver was arrested for stealing rice because his children were starving. The headlines called him a thief, his neighbors shook their heads in shame, and the barangay officials held a press conference to condemn his act as “a violation of our values.” Yet, in the same month, a senator accused of embezzling billions in public funds held a birthday party at a five-star hotel. Guess who didn’t go to jail?
This imbalance is more than just unfair—it’s nauseating. It’s as though the law operates like a crooked scale, weighted heavily in favor of those with money and influence. I’ve seen farmers dragged into police precincts over disputes about the land they’ve tilled for generations, all because some landowner decided he wanted the property back. These farmers, armed with nothing but calloused hands and their word, rarely win against polished lawyers and falsified documents. Meanwhile, someone charged with plunder or drug trafficking hires a legal team so sharp they could argue that the sun rises in the West—and the judge might just nod in agreement.
What’s even more infuriating is how those in power use charity as a shield against accountability. They’ll host feeding programs or donate relief goods with photographers in tow, all while dodging court subpoenas. It’s theater, plain and simple. And we, the audience, are expected to applaud their generosity, forgetting for a moment that the money they’re giving away likely came from taxpayers or illicit deals. It’s like watching a thief return a coin from a bag of stolen gold and being called a hero for it.
Corruption, of course, thrives on silence and complicity. I’ve sat in jeepneys where passengers shared whispers about a barangay official’s secret mansion or a policeman’s “extra income.” Yet no one dared speak up publicly. Why would they? Whistleblowers are often rewarded with harassment, lawsuits, or worse. It’s no wonder that people prefer to look the other way. The risk of exposing the truth far outweighs the hope of justice.
The irony is that we Filipinos are often accused of being too forgiving. Maybe it’s true. How else can one explain how convicted officials run for public office again and win? It’s as if we have collective amnesia or, worse, a penchant for electing villains because we mistake notoriety for competence. It’s a cycle as predictable as the seasons: they rob us blind, we complain, they smile, and we vote them back in.
It’s easy to feel helpless in the face of such a rigged system. Sometimes, I wonder if the law will ever serve justice equally, or if it will always be a weapon wielded by the powerful against the powerless. But perhaps there’s still a sliver of hope. I’ve seen glimpses of it in the youth, who call out injustices online. Their anger is raw, their voices unpolished, but their refusal to stay silent offers a spark of resistance against the status quo.
If there’s one thing we need, it’s accountability—real, uncompromising accountability. Laws shouldn’t bend to money or status; they should stand firm, as unyielding as the mountains. Until that happens, this country will remain what it is: a land where justice is a privilege, not a right, and the law’s blindfold will forever be just a prop in a never-ending farce.
