SINCE the 1986 restoration of democracy, upon the adoption of the 1987 Constitution, the Office of the Ombudsman was created to be the Philippines’ chief institution against graft and abuse of power. From Conrado Vasquez (appointed by Cory, 1988-1995), the first ombudsman who built its foundations, to Aniano Desierto (Ramos, 1995-2002) accused of “selective justice,” to Simeon Marcelo (Arroyo, 2002-2005) whose relentless prosecution secured Estrada’s plunder conviction, the ombudsman’s role has often reflected the political climate. Merceditas Gutierrez (Arroyo, 2005-2011) resigned amid impeachment threats for inaction on scandals, while Conchita Carpio-Morales (Aquino III, 2011-2018) reinvigorated the office with aggressive corruption prosecutions, notably the PDAF scam. Samuel Martires (Duterte, 2018-2025) drew criticism for restricting access to officials’ SALNs, curbing transparency, effectively neutering one of the sharpest weapons of public scrutiny.

Ombudsman – pillar of the rule of law

Remulla’s appointment was not a surprise. It was, in fact, anticipated. His adversaries tried twice to derail him: first, through a complaint of kidnapping former president Duterte, a complaint with Sen. Imee Marcos’s handprints all over; then, through another harassment maneuver in Congress by Pulong Duterte, Duterte’s son. Both fizzled out.

The Dutertes, ever the realists in political combat, read the terrain correctly: Remulla at the helm of the Ombudsman meant that the vault doors of the Anti-Money Laundering Council (AMLC) could be pried open. And once opened, the paper trail of joint family bank accounts — Sara, Paolo, Baste, surrogate son Bong Go, and former President Duterte himself — would be exposed to the unforgiving light of SALN verification.

Thus, the efforts to block Boying were less about principle than about fear. Fear that the money trail can no longer be concealed. Fear that the ombudsman, armed with AMLC records, could finally turn the narrative of accountability back on those who once wielded it as a weapon.

The power few understand

The scale of the ombudsman’s power is tremendous. Unlike most appointees, he enjoys a fixed seven-year term and can only be removed by impeachment — an institutional lock matched only by the presidency itself. He is not subject to presidential control, enjoys fiscal autonomy, and commands disciplinary authority over nearly the entire bureaucracy. He can suspend or dismiss officials, investigate on his own initiative (motu proprio), act on complaints, even anonymous ones, and file criminal cases before the Sandiganbayan with his own army of prosecutors. In short, he is the ultimate “verdugo!”

Former justice Antonio Carpio described it as “the most powerful office after the presidency.” The ombudsman’s reach is vast, its independence constitutionally enshrined, and its potential, if wielded with courage, revolutionary.

Marcos and Duterte – the politics of selectivity

The key question is who are Remulla’s targets. Cynics already whisper that the ombudsman will become the instrument by which the Dutertes are to be sidelined. The calculus is simple: the Duterte name is still potent, Vice President Sara is a rival for 2028, and her family’s finances are fertile ground for investigation. If AMLC records reveal discrepancies against the SALNs, then the ombudsman can do what impeachment complaints alone cannot: build a prosecutable case for removal or, at the very least, disqualify Sara from 2028. Shades of the Corona playbook.

Here lies the trap. If Remulla limits his crusade to the Dutertes and spares the Marcos allies, he will fall into the pitfall of selective prosecution. Credibility will evaporate. Worse, the institution he now embodies will again be weaponized as a partisan cudgel rather than a neutral arbiter of justice.

Will Remulla dare to extend his reach beyond expediency? Will he investigate the Marcos loyalists who quietly and illegally inserted pork into the budget? The entrenched dynasties fattened by flood control contracts? His Upsilon fraternity acolyte, Martin Romualdez? Boying was once “Tatang – the Bossman” in 1985. Only by pursuing all camps — even his own — can he restore faith in the office.

Senate’s collapse and ICI’s dilemma

All this unfolds against the backdrop of the Senate’s embarrassing implosion over the flood control scandal. Sen. Panfilo Lacson, armed with documents on billions in dubious insertions, was forced to resign as Blue Ribbon Committee chairman lest his investigation trigger a coup. One by one, senators refused to touch the Blue Ribbon Committee leadership. The Senate, caught investigating itself, collapsed into paralysis; as the Lower House had done earlier. “Corrupti corruptos investigare non possunt!”

This vacuum birthed the Independent Commission for Infrastructure (ICI), a body meant to channel public outrage into investigation. Yet the ICI too has disappointed: secretive, opaque, reluctant to bare its work, as revealed by Mayor Benjie Magalong, erstwhile consultant/investigator. In theory, the ICI is recommendatory, its findings feeding into the Office of the Ombudsman. In practice, it has become another layer of bureaucracy, vulnerable to suspicion. I expect resignations soon.

Here lies an irony. If Remulla proves effective, the ICI may become redundant. If he falters, the ICI’s secrecy ensures it will not fill the gap. Either way, only the ombudsman has the legal teeth to file cases. The rest is political theater.

Citizens at the ramparts

What, then, is to be done? The ombudsman’s independence, while real, cannot be left to the conscience of one man. Civil society must keep watch. As Carpio insists, “trust but verify.” But beyond vigilance lies action.

A broad coalition is now mobilizing to push for people’s initiative (PI) measures: an anti-political dynasty law, a freedom of information act (FOI), and civil society participation in infrastructure bidding. These reforms target the bloodstream of corruption itself. Dynasties perpetuate their power through pork barrel insertions; ghost projects thrive when bidding is opaque; secrecy breeds impunity. By institutionalizing transparency and limiting dynasties, citizens can cut off the oxygen that fuels corruption.

PI will not be easy. Twelve percent of voters nationwide, with three percent in each district must sign on. The work is colossal. But it is precisely in these civic exercises that the antidote to elite impunity is found. Youth and students are being mobilized, echoing the spirit of EDSA yet adapted to the digital age.

The moment of truth

Today, under Boying Remulla the office again stands at a crossroads — its independence and credibility shaped as much by law as by the politics of the moment. His conundrum: he wields the powers of righteousness, the expectations of a weary public, and the suspicion of those who see only political vendetta. His choices will shape not only the fate of the Dutertes, the credibility of the Marcos presidency itself, but more importantly the fate of the country in the years to come. If he prosecutes across factions, he can reestablish the ombudsman as the republic’s sentinel of integrity. And he will be a shoo-in for any position in 2028!

Meantime, the people must do their part. As we speak, the Marangal and Pilipino Movement, co-led by women and along with multitudes in the civil society have invoked the people’s right to anger at the impunity; use the streets as the venue for vigilance and protests — nonviolent, but always with the threat thereof.

For in the end, institutions only live when citizens defend them. The ombudsman’s moment of truth is not his alone — it is ours.