Of shame and power

In one country, a scandal breaks. A high-ranking official stands before the media, voice heavy with regret. He speaks of public trust, of responsibility, and with a deep bow, he resigns. The office he holds, he says, is more important than the person in it.

Now, there’s a stark contrast in another nation. Appallingly, the script is flipped. Allegations fly — massive graft, brazen corruption, ostentatious lifestyles, undeniable evidence. But the officials in question don’t bow. They dig in. They dismiss, they deflect, they play the victims of a political witch hunt. They cling to their seats as if they were a life raft in a sea of accountability.

This isn’t just a difference in strategy. The ongoing drama in the Philippines over the P545-billion flood control scandal, set against the ingrained norms in places like Japan and South Korea, reveals two entirely different answers to a fundamental question: what are we in power for?

In the Philippines, we’ve grown numb to the spectacle. The recent Senate hearings exposed an “unholy group” of lawmakers, officials, and contractors who allegedly exploited public safety for personal gain. Whistleblowers laid it bare: “not one of the specifications in the plans was followed.” And yet, the implicated? They’re still there. Firmly and defiantly.

This is a political culture where power is no longer a responsibility, but a shield. To resign is seen as a sign of weakness, an admission of guilt. That beautiful, nuanced Filipino idea of delicadeza — a sense of propriety, of knowing what is right and honorable — has been smothered by a new, brutal imperative: deny everything, attack your accusers, and outlast the outrage. Brazenness is evidently the new armor.

Now, let’s fly north. In Japan, they operate on a different currency —honor, encapsulated in the principle of sekinin (responsibility). There, a leader’s worth is measured by their willingness to fall on their sword for failures under their command, even if they didn’t personally wield it.

Take Prime Minister Fumio Kishida in 2024. He resigned not because he was directly caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but because a scandal within his party damaged public trust. His resignation was an act of preservation — for the institution, for the party’s future. It was, in a paradoxical way, a show of strength.

In South Korea, the bar is arguably even higher. Presidents face real, actual prosecution after their terms. Ministers resign over what others would consider minor gaffes. Why? Because they understand that public confidence is a fragile thing. Once shattered, it can’t be glued back together with excuses.

So, what’s the core difference? It’s a simple, stark choice: do you value the office, or the seat?

In one system, resigning is a strategic move to protect the office’s integrity. By stepping aside, they contain the damage and, sometimes, even live to fight another day. Their political survival is paradoxically tied to their willingness to sacrifice.

In the other, the seat is everything. To let go is to be forgotten, to lose your influence, your network, your leverage over investigations. The system perversely rewards endurance over ethics. Cling to power, and you control the narrative. You survive.

The cost of this “resignation deficit” is borne by the nation. When officials implicated in plundering funds meant for flood control — a matter of life and death in a country eternally battered by typhoons — refuse to step down, it screams one message: corruption is cost-free.

It signals that corruption carries no immediate political consequence, creating a vicious cycle of impunity. Citizens become cynical, believing that all leaders are corrupt, which in turn lowers the standard for public office.

Of course, there are exemptions. The recent case of Zaldy Co, a former House Appropriations Committee chair implicated in massive plunder, who resigned while on “medical leave,” is a fascinating puzzle. Was it a flicker of accountability, or a tactical retreat? With the possibility of him returning to face a probe far-fetched, many say it is not a principled stand but a strategic pause — a master class that defines the system.

Turns out, the job description was all perks, and no responsibilities. Who knew?

The path to rebuilding trust isn’t complicated, but it is challenging. Until the cost of clinging to power becomes greater than the cost of stepping down, the Philippines will remain trapped in a cycle where public office is treated as a private entitlement, and the noble concept of delicadeza remains a forgotten ideal.

It begins when our leaders learn the most powerful lesson of all — that true strength lies not in holding on, but in having the integrity to LET GO.