It’s a claim so elegantly clever it could only have been crafted by a lawyer: former Ombudsman Samuel Martires, saying that letting people see public officials’ money is harassment.

Privacy. Said even the Supreme Court is iffy about transparency.

These people think their mansion is a diary: “Don’t look at my Bentley. It’s very private.”

No, Mr. Martires. Their wives’ journal, that’s private. The country’s money, that’s everybody’s business.

He said SALNs are being weaponized. Like honesty is a missile. “Incoming truth, brace for impact!”

When the truth is a weapon, it means the lie is the law. If the truth hurts you, maybe you’re allergic to sunlight, OK? Probably needs SPF 15 million.

Maybe take an antihistamine and tell us where you got the P15 million, huh?

In 2018, after reports his wealth rose by P15 million in five months, Martires cited “media misuse” and public officials like himself getting harassed being one justification for restricting SALN access.

P15 million. Five months. Tell us, Mr. Martires. Is it harassment or a miracle?

Inheritance? Business? Sure. Possible. But possibility isn’t proof. In public service, the burden of explanation is the job.

Journalists are being mean? You cannot declare yourself a victim because reporters noticed a spike.

Maybe if Sara Duterte didn’t spend P125 million in 11 days, nobody would ask.

Where was Mr. Martires when the impeachment complaints versus Sara swirled in the House? Officially, on the sidelines: issuing polite orders that she answer complaints, then retreating behind procedure.

He called it respect for process; we call it selective paralysis, the kind that looks “neutral”, while, arguably, it might have had the effect of protecting the interests of the administration that appointed him.

That’s our job. The journalists. “Twisting” things. Like bartenders twist lemons to get the juice. If there’s no juice, we move on.

Don’t question them? We’re making them uncomfortable? What is this, a spa? Relax, Sam. We don’t want photos of a senator’s unflattering sea legs. We just wanna know who paid for the vacation.

Mr. Martires said people might misunderstand. Yeah? People misunderstand when math stops adding up.

“We must protect the dignity of the office.” Like maintaining trust in government by hiding everything?

“Protect the institution?” From whom? People? Like protecting your house by locking the owner outside? Brilliant. Mr. Martires here should’ve gone into real estate.

If they want privacy, then they shouldn’t have gone public. Work for Jollibee. Nobody will ask about the SALN. They’ll have total privacy. Maybe a free Chickenjoy.

But Mr. Martires, he locked it up tighter than Area 51 in the US: Nobody knows what’s inside, yet everyone’s sure it’s weird.

He made it impossible: Write a request. Get approved. Notarize it. Wait six months. Maybe they’ll think about it. It’s like trying to get a visa to see your own taxes. Red tape so thick you could spread it on toast.

Then comes Boying Remulla. Beautiful name, by the way. Sounds like a charming superhero and a sound effect. “Bo-ying!”

“Let there be light!” He said. And there was light. You could almost hear the rats scatter. They’re hissing. “Nooo!” Like Dracula melting.

Boying said we’re done hiding. No more permits to see your own government. Under Martires, you needed a letter, an affidavit. Now? You only need curiosity. Imagine? Curiosity is legal again.

So here’s to Boying. The man who dismantled the Martires situation.

Democracy is supposed to sting. That’s the beauty. Supposed to make the powerful sweat. Because if the government ever becomes a comfort zone, then corruption just became a lifestyle.

Where the poor stand in line to prove their worth, the powerful should dang well stand in line to prove their wealth.