Every Time We Shrug, Corruption Wins: How Vote-Buying Costs the Philippines ₱700B a Year

I remember I was at the Cabanatuan public market two days before the May 2025 election.

I overheard a tindera telling a fellow tindera,

“Tinanggap ko yung ₱5,000 na offer. Pantawid gutom na rin naming mag-anak.”

She wasn’t whispering. She wasn’t ashamed.

It was said like she was talking about palengke prices or electricity bills—just another part of surviving.

And I didn’t say anything.

I just kept walking, pretending I didn’t hear it.

But deep inside, may kirot. Hindi galit—hindi pa siguro. Pero lungkot.

Because how many times have I done the same?

Heard something wrong. Saw something off. And chose to move on.

Wala tayong magagawa.

That phrase should come with a receipt.

Because every time we say it, the cost keeps growing.

The government loses around ₱700 billion every year to corruption.

That’s not a guess.

According to Deputy Ombudsman Cyril Ramos, that amount vanishes annually—about 20% of the entire national budget (ABS-CBN News).

In fact, from 2017 to 2018 alone, he said the country lost ₱1.4 trillion to corruption (BusinessWorld).

₱700 billion.

Enough to build 1.4 million homes for informal settlers.

Enough to feed all 27 million public school kids for one full school year.

Enough to triple our hospital infrastructure budget.

Pero saan napunta?

That’s what I kept thinking on my way home, still hearing her voice.

Pantawid gutom.

And I couldn’t help but ask myself:

Is it really just their fault?

Or are we all helping keep the scam alive—one shrug at a time?

What ₱700 Billion Could Have Bought

Seven hundred billion.

Hindi mo siya mahawakan. Wala ka namang kilalang may ganung pera.

Pero ramdam mo siya—sa ospital, sa eskwela, sa kalsadang butas, sa lunchbox ng batang walang baon.

You don’t need to see the money to feel what’s missing.

₱700 billion is enough to build around 1.4 million core houses for informal settlers—every year.

That estimate came straight from Deputy Ombudsman Cyril Ramos, based on an average of ₱500,000 per housing unit (NTUC PH News).

That’s one house for every family living under the bridge, by the estero, or beside the railroad tracks.

Baka hindi na kailangan magpalipat-lipat ang informal settler sa Maynila tuwing may bagong proyekto ang gobyerno.

₱700 billion is also enough to feed all 27 million public school children for an entire academic year.

Based on current rates from DepEd’s School-Based Feeding Program—₱25 per meal across 200 days—₱135 billion can cover everyone for one year (Inquirer, Senator Ralph Recto).

With ₱700 billion, we could fund five years’ worth of meals.

Baka mas madami pang nakaabot sa Grade 6. Baka mas konti ang batang namamatay sa kakulangan ng nutrisyon.

That same amount could also triple the Department of Health’s hospital infrastructure budget.

In 2024, the DOH received just ₱22.98 billion for its Health Facilities Enhancement Program (GMA News). In earlier years, it was as low as ₱19.6 billion (GMA News).

₱700 billion would be enough to build and equip new clinics, expand regional hospitals, and fund long-overdue repairs.

Baka may incubator na. Baka hindi na kailangang magdala ng sariling IV stand ang kamag-anak.

These aren’t statistics. These are daily trade-offs.

And we’ve made them so often, we forget they were even choices to begin with.

We don’t need to imagine what ₱700 billion can do.

We just need to look at what’s not there.

What Makes Us Look Away

Minsan, hindi mo kailangang bayaran ang tao para tumahimik.

Sanayin mo lang. Pagod na sila, gutom pa. Madaling makalimot.

And that’s the power of corruption in this country.

It doesn’t need your approval.

Just your silence.

“₱500 lang naman ‘yan.”

For many families, one envelope during campaign season isn’t a scandal—it’s dinner.

Or gatas. Or pamasahe. Or a month’s worth of utang paid in one go.

When 1 in 5 Filipinos still live below the poverty line (PSA 2023), what we call “vote buying” sometimes looks like survival.

And the practice isn’t hidden.

In 2022 alone, Comelec confirmed over 1,000 vote-buying investigations (Philstar).

Masama ba talaga tumanggap kung gutom ka?

It’s a hard question. But the answer gets harder every election cycle—because after the meal is gone, we’re stuck with leaders who stay full while the rest go hungry again.

“Kilala ko kasi ‘yan.”

This one hurts more than we admit.

In many towns, your vote goes to whoever gave your uncle a coffin, your cousin a scholarship, or your barangay a basketball court.

Never mind if the same last name appears on every campaign tarp, every ballot, every branch of government.

As of the latest counts, 80% of governors and 67% of lawmakers come from political dynasties (Inquirer, Inquirer News).

And despite scandals, some of these names still poll well.

Pulse Asia’s trust surveys show certain personalities remain popular, even after public controversies (Pulse Asia Sept 2023 Report).

Because in many places, familiar still feels safer than qualified.

“Sa atin, mas mahalaga kung kilala ka—kahit walang ginawa.”

“Hindi naman ako apektado.”

We trust what we see.

And most of us don’t see the Senate.

We see our barangay captain showing up after a flood. We see the kagawad help with funeral papers.

That’s why in the 2024 Philippine Trust Index, trust in local government units (LGUs) reached 95%, while trust in Congress lagged behind at 82% (Adobo Magazine / EON Group, Philstar).

So people stop caring about what happens in Manila.

“Wala rin namang epekto sa amin.”

And in that apathy, national plunder survives.

Because no one’s watching anymore.

“Wala rin namang nangyayari.”

People care—until they don’t.

We shouted when the pork barrel scam broke.

But more than a decade later, only a handful of cases ended in conviction, despite over ₱10 billion stolen (Wikipedia summary with links to Rappler and Inquirer).

COA audit delays don’t help either.

Their annual reports list billions in disallowances, but resolutions take years—often past the term of the official involved (COA Annual Reports).

“Kung wala namang napaparusahan, para saan pa ang reklamo?”

That question isn’t cynicism. It’s exhaustion.

And it’s exactly what corrupt officials count on.

We may not steal public funds ourselves.

But when we look the other way, laugh off a dynasty, or vote for charm instead of track record—

That silence becomes permission.

And in a country where scandals trend but never stick, silence isn’t just complicity.

It’s currency.

Ang Hindi Kumikibo, Pumapabor

“Ang hindi kumikibo, pumapabor.”

We hear this in school, in church, sometimes in the middle of a barangay meeting when someone refuses to take a side.

But in the context of corruption, it cuts deeper.

Because silence doesn’t just protect the guilty.

It makes space for them to keep going.

We’ve grown used to little things. The casual. The forgivable. The “ganyan talaga sa Pinas.”

Shrugging at Nepotism

“Anak niya ‘yan.”

“Asawa niya kasi.”

“Hindi mo ba alam, kapatid ng mayor ‘yan?”

We hear it so often, it doesn’t even sting anymore.

Appointments based on bloodline. Promotions for spouses. Barangay chairs building little empires, one relative at a time.

We don’t question it. We just call it pakikisama.

But every time we normalize nepotism, we make dynasties look reasonable. We make them feel inevitable (Inquirer Business).

Facilitating Small Bribes

In line sa munisipyo.

“Boss, baka pwedeng pakibilisan.”

May kasunod na kape, o pamasahe, o simpleng lagay.

Nobody thinks it’s corruption.

It’s just dagdag-pasensya.

But what starts as a small favor becomes the excuse for bigger schemes.

And suddenly, the same mindset that greased the LTO line is defending a billion-peso ghost project.

Rewarding Name Recall Over Record

Sometimes we ask all the wrong questions.

“Friendly ba siya nung kampanya?”

“Nakabati ba siya nung motorcade?”

“Naalala mo ‘yung palabas niya dati?”

We vote based on memory, not merit.

We reward charm, not character.

And even when their name is dragged through scandal after scandal, we find ways to forget—because at least, may ambag naman.

But no amount of TikTok popularity should erase incompetence.

No last name, no family legacy, no showbiz nostalgia should be enough to skip the hard questions (Pulse Asia).

Abdicating Investigative Citizenship

We share the article.

We rage-post the headlines.

But do we follow through?

When was the last time we checked if a corruption case actually moved?

Or attended a barangay assembly to see if promised projects were delivered?

Most of us don’t. Not because we don’t care.

But because the system taught us: wala ring mangyayari.

The truth is, slow justice isn’t just frustrating—it’s a form of voter suppression.

Delay long enough, and the crowd disperses.

Drag it out, and the anger fades.

What’s left is silence.

And silence is all the corrupt need to stay (COA).

Corruption doesn’t always need accomplices.

Sometimes it just needs neighbors who look away.

Employees who don’t ask.

Voters who move on.

Citizens who scroll past.

Ang hindi kumikibo, pumapabor.

And whether we like it or not—every time we let it pass, we let it win.

Okay, So What Now?

We always say, “Wala tayong magagawa.”

But what if meron pala kahit kaunti?

Not grand gestures.

Not big revolutions.

Just small questions we ask ourselves, quietly, before the next election, the next headline, the next shrug.

“Boto ko ba, may presyo?”

We all know someone who’s taken the envelope.

Some of us have done it, too.

But what if next time, we said no?

Or at least asked a neighbor who said yes—“Kumusta? Worth it ba?”

Not to shame. Not to fight. Just to listen.

Because listening is sometimes the first form of resistance.

“Sino ba talaga ang tumatakbo?”

We see the posters. We hear the jingles.

Sometimes we vote just because the name rings a bell.

But maybe next time, we pause.

We check their record.

We ask: Ilang taon na ba silang nasa puwesto? Ilan sa pamilya nila ang tumakbo na? May asawa, anak, kapatid ba sa kapitolyo, sa kongreso, sa mayor’s office?

It takes three minutes.

And it might save us three more years of regret.

“May paraan pa ba akong bawiin ang boto ko—kahit sa pagtatanong o pag-imbestiga lang?”

Sometimes we vote and then go quiet.

But what if we didn’t?

We don’t need to file cases or run for office.

We just need to ask questions. Out loud.

On a Facebook comment. In a barangay meeting. At the tricycle terminal.

Because one question—“Nasaan na ‘yung project?”—can echo louder than a hundred complaints whispered in frustration.

“Alam ko ba kung saan napunta ang buwis ko?”

We pay. Every month. Every sweldo.

But most of us have no idea where it goes.

Maybe this week, we open one COA report (https://www.coa.gov.ph).

Maybe we check out our LGU’s disclosure on the DILG portal (https://fdpp.dilg.gov.ph) or look up the numbers through BLGF’s fiscal data site (https://blgf.gov.ph/lgu-fiscal-data/).

Maybe we just share one link with a friend.

Not to fix the whole system.

Just to remind ourselves that we’re still watching.

These aren’t solutions.

They won’t erase the ₱700 billion.

They won’t stop the dynasties.

They won’t cancel the trolls.

But maybe they make us harder to fool.

Harder to buy.

Harder to silence.

And maybe that’s where change begins.

Not in answers.

But in refusal.

Hope, Not Hashtags: Real Fixes to Support

Hope isn’t just saying “sana all.”

Sometimes, it’s knowing what to ask for.

And who to pressure.

Because while it’s true that change begins with us, it can’t end there.

Some things need laws.

Some things need systems.

And some things—let’s be honest—just need to be demanded over and over until they can’t be ignored.

Here are four things we deserve to see happen. Hindi sila bago. Hindi sila imposible.

Pero hanggang ngayon, nakabinbin pa rin.

1. A Real Anti-Dynasty Law

It’s been sitting in the Constitution since 1987 (1987 Constitution Section 26).

“Prohibit political dynasties as may be defined by law.”

Pero hanggang ngayon, walang batas.

How can we talk about choice when only one family shows up on the ballot?

This isn’t bitterness. This is common sense.

Kung seryoso tayong tapusin ang bilog-bilog na trapo system, this is where we start.

By breaking the bloodlines that pretend to be public service (Philstar, Manila Bulletin).

2. Full e-Procurement for Government Spending

Alam natin kung paano ito nangyayari.

Under-the-table deals. Ghost projects. Overpriced supplies.

And the worst part? Minsan walang record. Minsan manual pa rin lahat.

That’s why we need full e-procurement.

Digitized bidding. Public dashboards. Real-time tracking.

Pag digital ang proseso, mas mahirap dayain. Mas madaling bantayan (PhilGEPS, RA 12009 - New Government Procurement Act, Malaya Business Insight).

We don’t need magic. Just receipts.

3. A Whistleblower Protection Law

Every time someone exposes corruption, we applaud.

Then forget.

And they’re left to deal with the threats alone.

Kung walang ligtas na lugar para sa totoo, sino pa ang magsasalita?

We need a law that protects whistleblowers—clear safeguards, relocation support, even just one year of guaranteed income while they recover from the backlash (UNODC, DLSU Repository, CXC Global).

Because courage shouldn’t come with a death sentence.

4. Budget-for-Results Policy

Right now, politicians receive funds regardless of performance.

Infrastructure, projects, pork—automatic, taon-taon.

But what if those budgets depended on results?

Tie it to real-world metrics. Education outcomes. Health service delivery. SDG goals.

Kung hindi ka nagtatrabaho, dapat wala kang budget. Simple lang (DBM PIB Guide, UNESCAP SDG Budget Integration).

This isn’t punishment. It’s accountability.

And it’s long overdue.

These aren’t silver bullets.

They won’t fix everything overnight.

But they’re not hashtags either.

They’re real, practical, overdue reforms.

And if we keep asking for them—loudly, quietly, online, in conversations—they stop sounding impossible.

Maybe hope isn’t about waiting for someone to save us.

Maybe it’s about demanding better, even when no one’s trending it yet.

From Noise to Voice

I keep thinking about that moment in Cabanatuan.

Two days before the election.

A tindera, counting bills she accepted from a local campaigner.

“Pantawid gutom na rin namin mag-anak,” she said.

And no one around her disagreed.

No one raised a brow.

Not even me.

That money wasn’t meant to silence her.

It was meant to buy her vote.

And maybe for that day, it did.

But what stayed with me wasn’t the money.

It was how normal it all felt.

We know how corruption sounds when it explodes into scandal.

But most of the time, it doesn’t scream.

It whispers.

In envelopes. In appointments. In excuses.

In the shrug of the shoulders.

In the “Eh ganyan talaga.”

Corruption survives not because we cheer for it—

But because we move on from it.

Every election season, we find ourselves back at the same crossroads.

We lament the same names.

We shake our heads at the same scams.

Then we pull the same levers.

It’s not just that officials are brazen.

It’s that our tolerance is elastic.

And every time we shrug, they steal louder.

But maybe not this time.

Maybe someone, somewhere, reads this and starts asking questions again.

Maybe they say no to the envelope.

Maybe they check the project list.

Maybe they speak up in a room that’s gotten too used to silence.

These aren’t grand revolutions.

They’re not meant to trend.

But they matter.

Because silence is expensive.

And courage—kahit kaunti lang—might cost a vote, or a friendship, or a seat at someone’s table.

But it buys back a piece of the country we keep losing.

And that, I think, is worth more than any offer on election day.