Swimming in blood money

Some rain fell on Friday and many parts of Metro Manila went under water. Commuters waded, cars stalled, and students stayed home. For years, billions of pesos were supposedly spent on “flood control,” but what the public has gotten in return are culverts that collapse after a drizzle, dikes that crack after a single typhoon, and ghost projects fattening contractors and their political patrons.

Now the scandal has finally broken open: lawmakers, Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH) engineers, and favored companies were found swimming in pork disguised as public works.

The House of Representatives, laughably, wants to investigate itself. Even its leaders, like Rep. Sandro Marcos, admit the obvious: it has no credibility. How can a body be trusted to expose the rot when many of its members are accused of sharing in the loot?

And the rot is everywhere. Senate President Chiz Escudero has admitted that one of his biggest campaign donors in 2022 was Dennis Lubiano, a friend who happens to be the president of a firm that secured billions of pesos in flood control contracts.

Escudero insists there was nothing improper — that everything was declared to the Comelec, that he had no hand in any contract. Still, the Omnibus Election Code is clear: candidates are prohibited from accepting contributions from those who do business with the government. The fact that Escudero acknowledged taking the money should not be brushed off as a mere technicality. By the letter of the law, it is disqualifying; by the spirit of the law, it reeks.

Likewise, Senator Joel Villanueva had been photographed alongside DPWH officials later tagged in “ghost” flood control projects. He may swear he never lobbied for contracts, and that may be true. But politics is not just about formal transactions; it is also about proximity. When you are seen celebrating, playing basketball, and cutting ribbons with the very men accused of running fraudulent projects, questions of judgment and accountability inevitably arise. Friendship is not a crime, but it is not insulation either.

Senator Panfilo Lacson, in a privilege speech, directly linked Rep. Arnan Panaligan of Oriental Mindoro to suspicious flood-control “insertions.” Panaligan has denied the charge, calling it baseless. Still, Lacson’s revelations did not stop there. He said that as many as 67 congressmen — or their relatives — have acted as contractors for their own government projects, a conflict of interest so blatant it would be laughable if it weren’t theft.

Baguio City Mayor Benjamin Magalong has likewise exposed the going rates: kickbacks of 30 to 40 percent skimmed from project budgets, with lawmakers or their kin “fronting” as contractors to pocket royalties of three to five percent. Informants, Lacson says, are ready to name names — only if they are given protection. Yet in the House, the response is always the same — denials, deflection, and sham investigations that predictably go nowhere.

What is to be done? The laws already exist. The Omnibus Election Code lays down the penalties for candidates who accept illegal contributions. The Code of Conduct for Public Officials demands avoidance not just of impropriety but also of its appearance. Yet these laws are treated as dead letters. Senators cite privilege, congressmen close ranks, the DPWH hides behind procedures, and the public grows numb.

The greater scandal is not just that billions meant for flood protection may have been stolen. It is that those who admit to entanglements — or are caught in compromising company — remain ensconced in high office, untouchable, or at the very least unperturbed.

Every peso lost to flood control rackets is blood money. It drowns the commuter stranded on the highway, the patient who cannot reach the hospital, the child who grows up believing waist-deep floods after a light rain are normal. This flood will never recede unless the thieves are named, charged, and punished — including the congressmen who helped rig the system.

Until then, Filipinos will keep drowning, while their so-called leaders stay comfortably afloat with their loot.