Trial of Philippine Democracy

The impeachment trial of the Vice President gave us a window into how the Constitution—and democracy itself—works. What we saw was not always pretty. But perhaps that is the point.

DEMOCRACY IS MESSY

Democracy is messy. Obstructionist, even. It argues with itself. It moves slowly. It allows people we disagree with to speak—and sometimes win. Sometimes the vote goes against everything you believe. You lose. Your candidate loses. The decision goes the other way. And it hurts.

But they heard your voice. You don’t have to win to matter. You don’t have to get your way to have a say. That is democracy. And then comes the inevitable frustration: “We are supposed to be a democracy!”

We say it when the roads flood. When medicine costs more, tuition becomes another mountain to climb, when poverty persists, or when corruption seems everywhere.

But what exactly are we asking democracy to do? Make government efficient? Make our candidate win? Make our lives easier?

Democracy promises none of those things. It promises that we get a voice. Sometimes that voice loses. But they heard it. That is the bargain. And the bargain runs both ways. Democracy expects something from us, too. To behave. Don’t sell your vote. Don’t look away when public money disappears because your side benefits. Don’t defend corruption because the corrupt person happens to be your guy.

We lament graft and corruption. We lament the unending sight of flooding.

And we ask: Where did all the money go? Money that was supposed to build drainage, widen waterways, clear esteros, protect communities. So, we look for someone to blame. Someone to investigate. Someone to prosecute. Someone’s head to roll. Perhaps we should.

But before we point the finger, perhaps we should look at the hand. When you point a finger at someone, three fingers point back at you. Not because we are all equally corrupt. We aren’t. But corruption does not survive on corrupt officials alone. It needs permission. A favor. A shortcut. A little envelope. A phone call to someone we know. A willingness to look away because the beneficiary is on our side. And then there is the election.

“Can you eat democracy?”

If you are hungry, money is not an abstract idea. It buys rice, medicine, and food for children. Hence, we should be careful about judging the poor from the comfort of our own tables.

But the money did not come for free. Someone is buying something. They are buying permission. Permission to govern. Permission to recover the money later—perhaps from the very public funds that should never have been touched in the first place.

The money you received today may be the smallest part of the transaction. Tomorrow comes the contract. The padded price. The favored supplier. The missing project.

The road that exists on paper but not on the ground. And somewhere in that chain, your few hundred pesos have multiplied into millions.

You took the money. They took the government. And both sides walk away poorer.

That is not an argument for blaming the poor. It is an argument for understanding how poverty can become a weapon in the hands of the powerful.

Perhaps the better question is not: Why did you take the money Perhaps it is: Why did you have to? What does democracy mean to the family stretching one paycheck until the end of the month?

Now we are asking the right question. Democracy cannot be a beautiful idea floating above ordinary life. It must reach the kitchen table. The mother is buying medicine. The father paying tuition. The worker wonders whether this month’s salary will cover next month’s rent. And the student who wonders whether college is still within reach.

These are not philosophical questions. They are dinner-table questions. And democracy should not be offended when people ask them.

Government exists to serve the people. So yes, ask what government can do for us.

But perhaps President John F. Kennedy’s old question deserves to be turned around:

What are we willing to do for our country? Not someday. Not when the politicians change. Not when somebody else finally gets caught.

Now. Because government is not some distant creature living inside a government building. It is part of the bargain we have made with one another. We elect. We tolerate. We enable. We complain. And sometimes we look away.

So, ask the harder question: What part of this have I helped make—or allowed to continue?

That question belongs to this trial, too. Because when we become corrupt—or complicit in corruption—we haven’t hurt democracy first. We have hurt ourselves.

The impeachment trial will eventually end. There will be a verdict. Winners. Losers. Celebrations. Outrage. And then life goes on. The roads will still flood. Medicine will still cost money. Children will still need schools. Families will still struggle.

And democracy will still be here. Messy. Imperfect. Inconvenient. Still asking us to argue, to listen, and still giving us another chance. So perhaps the real question is not whether democracy works. It is whether we are doing our part to make it work.

We have complained about the government. We have blamed the politicians. We have pointed our fingers. Now look at the hand. Three fingers are pointing back. And perhaps that is where this trial should leave us. Not angry. Not defeated. Not looking for another form of government because this one has become inconvenient. But looking in the mirror.

Because democracy is not only tested by the people who govern us. It is tested by the people we become.

And if democracy is on trial, perhaps we should finally take our seat in the courtroom. Not as spectators, but as witnesses.