This is what happens in our country: petty thieves are treated like rats—chased, beaten, sometimes even killed. But those in barong, who plunder millions, are honored guests at government banquets, their sins washed away by power and influence. What kind of people have we become when theft is not just tolerated but expected?
It is easy to say that poverty breeds crime and that a hungry man will do anything for survival. But if that were the case, why do we see the wealthiest and most privileged dipping their hands into public funds as if it were their birthright? These are not desperate men stealing to feed their families; they are comfortable, well-fed, and highly educated. And with every budget hearing, infrastructure project, or public procurement deal, they find a way to skim off the top. Worst of all, they do it shamelessly, as if looting came with the job description.
That sense of entitlement to loot has become so deep-seated within our culture. We see it in small ways: the market vendor who sneaks an extra push of the weighing scale, the cashier who “forgets” to give the right change, and the jeepney driver who keeps the excess fare. These are minor offenses, but they reveal a mindset: if you can take something without consequences, take it. It is the same mentality that allows politicians to siphon off billions, just on a grander scale. Theft in the Philippines is not just a crime; it has been a skill, an art passed on from one generation of crooks to another.
But the worst part, however, lies in how people justify it. There are always excuses: “I deserve this,” or “Everybody does it,” or “It’s only a little bit,” or the classic, “At least I am not as corrupt as the others.” We have a nation of thieves who never think of themselves as thieves. The public, so used to being cheated, shrugs and moves on. Noisy during scandals, silent after elections. We do not tolerate corruption; we vote for it, celebrate it, and defend it when it benefits us.
Religion, which ought to guide men to what is right, is distorted so that it could facilitate theft. A politician distributes millions in “charity,” and priests queue up to shake his hand. A corrupt official bankrolls a grand fiesta, and people praise him for his generosity. Never mind where the money came from. As long as there is lechon and fireworks, everybody’s happy. Religion should cleanse the soul, but here in the Philippines, it seems to act like soap, just to wash away your guilt.
Let us now talk about families. The man who steals and gets caught is disgraced. But he who steals but does not get caught becomes the hero. He says, “Para sa pamilya,” building a mansion out of stolen money. Parents encourage their children to work in government, not to serve but because “may pera doon.” Honesty is taught as a virtue in schools, but in real life, we admire those who know how to cheat the system. The best thieves do not hide in the shadows; they sit in air-conditioned offices, signing papers that bleed the country dry.
But no matter how ordinary corruption appears, it is not harmless. Every peso pilfered is fewer books for students, fewer medicines in hospitals, and fewer roads properly built. People die because of corruption—literally. Floods worsen because funds meant for drainage projects are pocketed. Fires rage because firefighters lack proper equipment. Filipinos suffer not just because we are poor, but because we are being robbed blind by those whom we trust to lead us.
So, what do we do? At the very least, stop romanticizing thieves. Stop making heroes out of villains. Stop treating stolen wealth as something to aspire to. If we are to see change, we must be angry—not just at the moment the news breaks, but every single day these crooks stay in office. Because in the end, the biggest crime is not that they steal—it’s that we let them.
