ON Nov. 30, another wave of indignation is set to sweep across the archipelago. This is no ordinary protest, but a multisectoral convergence grandly baptized as the “Trillion Peso March,” named after the staggering fund transfer of people’s money to the pockets of thieves. The figure may be hyperbolic, but so is the scale of the corruption.

The organizers, an unlikely constellation of civil-society groups, clergy, leftist blocs, student alliances and the ghostly remnants of post-Marcos 1 crusaders, are attempting what passes as national unity: getting everyone equally furious at the same crooks at the same time.

This show of collective disgust comes on the heels of the now-infamous aborted INC three-day rally fiasco of Nov. 16 to 18. What was supposed to be a pristine, apolitical prayer gathering mutated into a partisan circus once overeager allies injected calls for President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. to resign — punctuated by Sen. Imee Marcos’ tell-all on her brother’s propensity to get high on coke — calling “Ading Bonget” an addict. Nice show of filial devotion. “Ka Eddie Boy” and the INC leadership, usually masters at crowd choreography, found themselves outmaneuvered. The Duterte-aligned troops — forever on the lookout for a vacancy at the top — seized the moment, beating their drums for Vice President Sara Duterte to swoop in as the savior-in-waiting. Unity, as always, died on arrival.

Reclaiming the narrative

This coming mobilization attempts a hard reset. Its mission: to drag the corruption scandals back to center stage, strip the euphemisms, and name the culprits with the clarity of a medical autopsy. Gone are the polite calls for “reform” and “transparency.” In their place demands to hold specific individuals accountable, to shame an Ombudsman widely caricatured as a Marcos loyalist, and to pressure the criminal justice system into actually moving — preferably forward. This is not activism for the faint-hearted; it is a civic intervention for a government that appears to have overdosed on its own impunity.

The shameless perpetrators

By now, even the mildly attentive can recite the cast of characters in this sprawling corruption saga. The two chambers of Congress — ever united when the loot is large enough — have conspired with favored contractors (the Discaya network being only the best-known specimen) and key bureaucrats inside the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH). Secretaries, undersecretaries, district engineers — an entire assembly line of rent-seekers — perfected the formula: inflate the budget by dubious “insertions,” skim from the contracts, parading their “kabits” with the spoils on Facebook.

And as every whistleblower reminds us, this is just the tip of the iceberg, which implies the unseen remainder is large enough to sink a country, not just a ship.

The recent resignations of Executive Secretary Lucas Bersamin — the “Little President” — and Budget Secretary Amenah Pangandaman, guardian of the national purse, have only deepened suspicions. Their exit raises the question no one wants to ask aloud: Was the president merely negligent, or was he complicit? Detractors insist he lacks the cognitive wattage to mastermind a racket of this scale; skeptics counter that stupidity has never been a reliable defense in organized crime.

Which leads us to former House speaker Martin Romualdez, his congressional lieutenants like Zaldy Co, and a cabal whose members scuttle around inside the bicam like gnomes guarding the national ATM.

The great unraveling

As in every mafiosi drama, the syndicate is now eating itself alive. Legislators, contractors and bureaucrats are elbowing one another for a slot in the witness protection program, eager to secure the coveted status of “least guilty.” Some hope for lighter sentences; others dream of keeping part of their loot, because in the Philippines, even repentance comes with a negotiation.

The Trillion Peso March is thus not just a protest — it is a reckoning. A reminder that even in a country desensitized by scandal, there comes a point when the public finally says: Enough. Return what you stole — or the streets will collect it for you.

Where do we go from here

I remain skeptical that the Trillion Peso March — grand in name, righteous in intention — will deliver what our wounded nation now demands: genuine accountability and transparency, the resignation and removal of top officials implicated in wholesale corruption, and the swift, nonselective prosecution of bureaucrats, cabinet secretaries, senators and congressmen who helped engineer our national decay. At its heart, this movement seeks nothing less than a reform of governance itself. Yet the skepticism is warranted. We have marched before. We have demanded before. And the system, hydra-like, grows back with new heads and the same putrid smell.

Our political polarization complicates the picture further. One bloc cries, “BBM resign!” — an appeal drowned out by the specter of constitutional succession: the ascent of Vice President Duterte. This sector recoils at the idea, wary of inheriting the political DNA of a father whose Pharmally scandal remains one of the darkest emblems of pandemic plunder. The vice president herself has yet to fully answer for the alleged misuse of her confidential funds during her stint as education secretary. When the guardians of the public purse cannot account for the coins in their own pockets, one wonders what kind of succession we are really talking about.

A quandary

The uncomfortable truth is that a Ferdinand Marcos Jr. resignation and a Sara Duterte assumption would not heal the Republic’s long-festering wounds. The rot is systemic — embedded in the architecture of our politics, nourished by political dynasties, shielded by impunity, and enabled by a bureaucracy that has learned to survive not by serving the public, but by serving the powerful. Replacing the figure at the top is cosmetic; it is a haircut for a patient who needs organ transplant. How do we deal with the senators, congressmen and career bureaucrats who constitute the machinery of decay? Histrionic top billing changes will not purge a culture entrenched across generations.

The ghosts of our revolution

As the organizers of the Trillion Peso March attempt to mobilize a fractured populace, a parallel conversation simmers quietly in the streets. It is whispered more in longing than in strategy: the possibility — however remote — of a military component emerging, as happened twice in our modern history. EDSA 1 swept away a corrupt dictatorship but replaced it with a flawed democracy that enshrined political dynasties and partnered with oligarchs protected by the 1987 Constitution. EDSA 2 toppled another corrupt regime only to install a successor later jailed for plunder and ultimately freed. Both uprisings promised deliverance; both reproduced the traditional politics that continue to maim our institutions.

Today, many Filipinos — exhausted, disgusted, politically homeless — find themselves hoping, perhaps naively, for a deus ex machina: an intervention outside the narrow binary of the president and vice president, the two figures perched atop our totem pole of corruption. It is a yearning born of desperation rather than ideology, an appeal to forces unseen because the forces seen have failed us so completely.

Where we go from here remains unclear. Yet one truth stands firm: protests, resignations and successions are hollow unless the architecture of impunity — every beam, bolt, and shadow — is dismantled, redesigned and rebuilt. Without that, we merely pace our own cage. We need alternatives — real ones.

Third of a series

MY column last week drew varied reactions, but what was truly “nakakataba ng puso” was the overwhelming agreement from fellow Davaoeños with the article as satire. I told them, half in jest, that my prose sharpens when I am sufficiently enraged and when the stench of katiwalian becomes impossible to ignore. Rage these days is a form of clarity.

I will keep these Davaoeños en pectore — except one: my wife, Sylvia. “Great article, Dad, perfectly written!!! But I hope Bong Go won’t get back at us. I’m scared...” she said. Sylvia is no shrinking violet; her fear is diagnosis, not drama.

And perhaps that is the tragedy: fear has emerged as our collective inheritance. In a nation where corruptors hold power with impunity, even the courageous speak in lowered tones, waiting for the day safety is restored to the governed.

If part two (last week) traced Bong Go’s metamorphosis from the Deegong’s aide to his avatar and eventual Svengali, this is the sequel: the anatomy of his defense against the accusations of his own Torquemada, former senator Antonio Trillanes IV, that relentless inquisitor of conscience. Here, denial is not merely an alibi but an art form performed with devotional precision — the most profitable skill in Philippine politics.

But let us not mistake Sonny Trillanes for a hero. He is an opportunist who has mastered the art of harvesting tragedy from the missteps of Duterte and his minions. Yet, paradoxes abound in Philippine politics, and gratitude sometimes springs from unlikely places. For all his motives — pure or poisoned — we thank him for the dogged investigations, the meticulous gathering of documents, and the evidentiary trail now resting before the Ombudsman. One man’s revenge can, at times, become another man’s justice.

For simplicity, I expound on Bong Go’s defense — in his most inarticulate language, his pedigree can allow him — not in the solemn language of law but in the idiom of our national pastime, the teleserye where emotion trumps evidence and judgment is rendered by sentiment.

Act 1: The forensic fairy tale

Duterte’s ICC defense team challenges appointment of expert over 'credibility' concerns
Every scandal begins with a story, and Bong Go’s begins with lineage. “Our family’s construction business existed before I was born,” he declares, as if ancestry could absolve scrutiny. It’s a deft maneuver: convert an accusation into a legacy. But corruption is never hereditary; it is opportunistic, and CLTG’s rise parallels his path to Malacañang.

From modest beginnings, the firm blossomed into a miracle of public works contracts, multiplying with proximity to power, and assets swelling in rhythm with Go’s political elevation. Coincidence? Yet fortune reliably blesses those closest to the throne.

To devotees, it is diligence rewarded; to realists, déjà vu in the gospel of crony capitalism. Go’s true artistry resides not in deception but in narration, spinning fairy tales as liturgy, trusting that the public continues to yearn for redemption rather than responsibility.

Act 2: The deflection doctrine

Villar-Bonoan DPWH years a curse on education
When confronted with documents, Go often turns to expressions of loyalty rather than direct answers. Criticism is framed as persecution, turning oversight into sacrilege, critics into heretics. Evidence becomes an insult to truth. This approach has deep roots in our political history. Marcos’ père conceived it, Estrada polished it, and Duterte systematized it.

When the argument is indefensible, the strategy shifts toward appealing to emotion rather than addressing the facts. In a public sphere long shaped by rhetoric, volume can overshadow documentation, and sentiment can eclipse substance. In such moments, serious allegations risk being reduced to personalities and theatrics, weakening the institutional rigor that a democracy requires.

Act 3: The performance of property

Every public figure eventually offers a statement meant to convey integrity, and Go did so when he declared, “If my family is involved, I will be the first to recommend charges.” It projected a commitment to accountability though its impact lay more in the gesture than in any concrete action.

Meanwhile, investigations languish in a bureaucratic quagmire; evidence gathers dust. Delay becomes the disinfectant of scandal. By the time inquiries conclude, memory has decayed, and Go’s performance remains embalmed as proof of purity untouched by consequence.

Act 4: The ‘public servant, not a businessman’ plea

Then comes the sanctified denial. “I have not gained anything. My only investment is propriety.” Framed as a simple appeal to sincerity — our national currency — it reduces billions in contracts and oversight to a matter of personal integrity.

In a society that often associates humility with honesty, such statements can carry significant weight, even when official records raise unresolved concerns. Go’s plea resonates partly because the public is weary after controversies from Pharmally to flood-control anomalies; many citizens seek reassurance more than confrontation. His message offers that relief: trust the individual, set aside the troubling details.

Act 5: The politics of perception

By this point, the dynamics are clear. Go stands half-martyr, half-mirror, illustrating a political environment where truth often competes with perception for credibility. The Senate, once envisioned as a chamber of statesmen, now resembles a reality show for the self-righteous.

In this theater, Go excels. The bowed head, the trembling voice, the moist eyes of patriotic fatigue, each gesture calibrated for broadcast. The camera loves his humility; the masses forgive his opacity. Behind the curtains, the machinery hums efficiently, awarding contracts, recycling cronies, and laundering loyalty into legitimacy.

The tragedy is collective. Each time we applaud the performance of innocence, we deceive ourselves. Accountability becomes entertainment; sincerity becomes a commodity.

Act 6: The moral epilogue

As theater, Bong Go’s defense is almost impressive, disciplined, rhythmic, and drenched in poignancy. But remove the spotlight, and it becomes a cautionary tale: how virtue, repeated, becomes camouflage; how loyalty, mistaken for leadership, deteriorates into a liability.

He is the archetype of the Filipino functionary who ascends through devotion and survives through denial. His mantra, “Gusto ko lamang makatulong” transforms incompetence into compassion and mediocrity into mercy. Yet governance is not charity; help without understanding is harm with a halo. The republic deserves better than well-meaning aides promoted beyond their depth.

Postscript: The reckoning of shadows

Ombudsman Remulla may soon resurrect the Pharmally scandal and trace its architecture back to Go — not as an aide but as “capo di tutti capi.” His “soldatis” — Christopher Lao, former health secretary Duque, and Michael Yang’s network — could again face scrutiny if they have not already fled the country. Beyond Pharmally stand over 200 anomalous flood-control projects: CLTG, Alfrego and the Discayas’ concrete tributes to loyalty disguised as public service.

A reckoning, however delayed, appears unavoidable. The arena where Go once operated as Duterte’s trusted shadow may yet become his political graveyard. Unless he slips away or is likewise sequestered by the ICC as the purported paymaster of “crimes against humanity.” Herein lies an almost insurmountable quandary: remain and be indicted, or flee and be condemned for fleeing, or languish in The Hague with his avatar. Whichever way, history will collect its dues from those who mistake impunity for invincibility.

And my wife will be scared no more!

Second of a series

SPOILER alert! I am a proud Davaoeño. So is Sen. Christopher “Bong” Go who I was acquainted with as Mayor Rodrigo Duterte’s aide. I am neither a contractor nor a recipient of any favors from either. Many in Davao hold him in esteem, yet these reflections — parts two and three of this series — speak from my own vantage: that of a political technocrat, observer and kibitzer, perhaps even a provocateur, attuned to the shifting undercurrents of our nation’s political landscape.

There are men who ascend by the gravity of meritocracy — and those who rise through the ranks by proximity. Bong Go belongs to the latter: an everyman catapulted into the stratosphere of statecraft, where the air is too rarefied for his origins. Once the unassuming errand boy in Rodrigo Duterte’s shadow, he now inhabits the marble corridors of the Senate — a chamber whose lexicon he mimics, whose gravitas he borrows, and whose rituals he mistakes for governance.

Locally, he was simply the boy who never left the mayor’s side — the photobomber who fetched folders, calmed tempers and carried the psychic burden of a volcanic patron. Duterte governed through explosive outbursts; Go governed through quiet resilience. Together they forged a culture of chaos and control that Davaoeños learned to accept. Go’s gift was utility, not vision; his strength was obedience, not insight.

When Duterte captured the presidency in 2016, Go’s loyalty adhered to him like a well-trained echo. As special assistant to the president, he turned service into devotion. His role was neither clerical nor Cabinet; it was sacerdotal. He guarded Duterte’s routines, rituals and confidences, the sole interpreter for a leader who prized unpredictability, communicating with primeval skills through text messages via an array of cell phones.

The birth of the political twin

In Malacañang, a strange alchemy occurred — a political parthenogenesis, a birth without separation. Duterte begot a son not by blood but molded by mimicry; an alter ego fashioned not merely to obey but to preserve, protect and perpetuate the original. The fusion produced a doppelganger: one man’s power reflected in another’s presence.

What Go lacked in pedigree, he made up for with proximity. In this fusion of identities, access became currency. Governance turned into choreography — standing beside power and translating its moods.

Thus emerged a new political species: the proxy sovereign, legitimized not by election or intellect, but by emotional inheritance. The Palace, once an institution, turned into a tableau of two men performing as one.

From service to syndicate

With access came opportunity. As early as 2007, while still in Davao’s City Hall, the Go family’s firms — CLTG and Alfrego Builders — began appearing in DPWH records. Their growth paralleled Duterte’s trajectory: first local, then regional and finally national after 2016. What began as small-town patronage evolved into a large-scale enterprise. The pattern of corruption took shape in the 2016 Navy frigate deal, a P16 billion test of moral elasticity. Whispers of Go’s meddling, redacted papers and hurried approvals served as a rehearsal for a grander act.

The Pharmally scandal that followed during the pandemic was not an anomaly but a sequel. The actors changed names; the script remained identical: loyalty repackaged as legitimacy, favoritism as efficiency.

Within this apparatus, Go’s genius lay not in innovation but in emulation. He replicated Duterte’s tone, his justifications and his disdain for scrutiny. His family’s companies, in turn, replicated the bureaucracy’s own appetite for rent-seeking. The personal became institutional. To examine Go’s metamorphosis is to study how the Philippine bureaucracy learns to mimic its masters — rewarding loyalty over logic, familiarity over function.

The illusion of humility

When Go finally entered the Senate in 2019, he carried with him not an agenda but an identity. His campaign slogan “Serbisyong Totoo” was less a promise than a preemptive defense: a warning that competence would never be the measure. In this chamber of rhetoric and legislation, he often appeared ill-equipped, reading prepared statements with the caution of a man afraid to mispronounce power. Yet the awkwardness worked; it reinforced the narrative of the humble servant, the man too good for guile.

Humility became his armor. The more he appeared unsophisticated, the more he seemed incorruptible. This inversion encapsulates the dichotomies in Philippine populism: ignorance masquerades as innocence, and loyalty supplants the rule of law. Each misstep on the Senate floor, each clumsy idiom, and each awkward defense of Duterte’s policies became an episode in a continuing telenovela of sincerity. What the public saw was not incompetence but authenticity, a dangerous illusion in a nation that mistakes personality for principle.

The machinery of myth

Behind the smile and selfies operated a vast machinery of myth-making. State-funded ads cast Go as the patron saint of Malasakit Centers — St. Raphael guarding the poor’s health. Distributing relief goods to fire-ravaged communities like a latter-day saint of disaster. Billboards thanked him for projects he had neither authored nor funded. TV spots blurred service with self-promotion. To the public, he was Duterte’s tender alter ego — the soft hand of an iron-fisted regime.

Yet every photo op concealed an equation: visibility equals viability. Each sack of rice, an investment; each relief operation a reminder of political debt. The spectacle of generosity became the lubricant of corruption. If power was a performance, Go had earned a Famas award.

The paradox of the proxy

The tragedy — and the satire — of Bong Go lies in this: he is simultaneously indispensable and unnecessary. Indispensable because his master required an echo; unnecessary because echoes do not create, they repeat. His career illustrates the pathology of delegated power, where loyalty mutates into liability and mediocrity becomes institutional policy.

When former senator Trillanes accused him of plunder and conflict of interest, the outrage was less about evidence than about etiquette. “How dare you accuse the loyal servant?” cried the faithful. Here, the Philippines reveals its chronic confusion between morality and emotion. The accusation threatened not just Go but the myth of the grateful subordinate — the archetype every political patron relies on to humanize his own tyranny.

It is too simple to cast Bong Go as a villain; he is also a symptom. Our politics breeds his kind: loyal errand boys turned senators, photogenic aides mistaken for statesmen. We reward obedience, not originality; service, not sense. He is not an accident but an outcome — the nation’s reflection in its own shallow mirror, proof that mediocrity, when dutiful enough, can pass for merit.

Epilogue: The shadow ascends

In the end, Bong Go’s ascent is less a triumph than a parable — a quiet testament to how power in the Philippines perpetuates itself through mimicry. The aide becomes a senator, the shadow becomes the sun, and the republic confuses recurrence with renaissance. His narrative serves as a poignant reminder that unbridled proximity to power inexorably metamorphoses into complicity with its excesses.

He remains, to this day, the perfect reflection of his master: loyal, useful, and tragically limited. And in that reflection, the nation sees its own predicament — a people content to worship the shadow because it fears the light.