No more 'anting-anting' politics: Why the Philippines urgently needs a Whistleblower Protection Law

MANILA: In Philippine folklore, the agimat or anting-anting is a talisman believed to make its bearer bulletproof, invisible to enemies — or mysteriously protected from harm.

In modern Philippine politics, some officials seem to wear a different kind of anting-anting: impunity.

Despite exposés, Senate hearings, Commission on Audit (COA) reports, and even convictions, a number of politicians manage to recycle their image, return to office, and rewrite their public story.

Scandals fade.

Cases drag.

Voters forgive, forget, or grow tired.

The cycle repeats.

This is not just a cultural quirk, like sabong (cockfighting).

Cockfighting, illegal in many countries, is a centuries-old Filipino tradition anchored on extreme animal cruelty as it forces roosters to fight to the death — often with attached blades locally known as "tari", gaff made of a sharp metal blade — causing immense suffering, injuries like punctured lungs, and death.

It is prohibited in most jurisdictions due to its strong association with illegal gambling, money laundering, drug trafficking, and violence.

In the Philippines, no leader local or national can mess with sabong, a multi-billion industry.

Cockfighting arenas, found everywhere, are packed on weekends, or festivals.

Sabong is the top religion in the Philippines, with its own "Kristo".

This culture of impunity, and legends marked by "agimat" or "anting-anting", forms the bedrock of Filipino national ethos.

It's also part of the structural weakness.

And it is precisely why the Philippines needs a strong, enforceable whistleblower protection law, as per the United Nations.

Scholars have long described Philippine elections as personality-driven rather than program-driven.

Political scientist Paul D. Hutchcroft calls it a system dominated by “patronage democracy,” where personal networks outweigh institutions.

Historian Alfred W. McCoy has written extensively about elite families’ ability to retain power across generations, even after scandal.

Meanwhile, Eva-Lotta Hedman notes how weak party systems allow personalities to detach from past wrongdoing and rebrand with new alliances.

A long pattern of impunity in the Philippines is often traced by scholars and reform advocates to two reinforcing forces: the concentration of political power in Manila under successive constitutions — most notably the 1987 Charter — and a cultural mindset sometimes described as “smallism,” the belief that the country, and individual citizens, are too small to challenge entrenched authority.

Critics say this combination has weakened accountability mechanisms, enabled corruption to persist across administrations, and discouraged potential whistleblowers in the absence of strong legal protections.

Without safeguards for those who expose wrongdoing, abuses can remain hidden or go unpunished — for years. It deprives young Filipinos of a hope for the constancy reform, and error correction in the way the country's finances and priorities are managed.

Political dynasties have benefited from this environment.

Election after election, many voters continue to choose leaders from familiar family lines, a pattern researchers link to uneven regional development and limited political competition outside established clans.

The country’s 21-year dictatorship under Ferdinand Marcos Sr. remains a central reference point in discussions of impunity.

His rule was marked by documented human rights abuses, corruption, and the concealment of wealth in foreign accounts, including in Switzerland.

Despite this history, Filipinos in 2022 overwhelmingly elected his son, Ferdinand Marcos Jr., to the presidency.

Even Lee Kuan Yew, once considered a friend of Marcos Sr., recounted concerns about the Philippine leader’s governance and corruption in his memoirs, observations frequently cited by historians examining the era.

More recently, allegations surrounding the anti-drug campaign of former president Rodrigo Duterte and political influence wielded by his family have revived debates over accountability, human rights, and the difficulty of investigating powerful figures.

For reform advocates, these episodes illustrate how impunity, centralised authority, weak protections for whistleblowers, and dynastic politics intersect — shaping voter behaviour, governance outcomes, and the country’s uneven development trajectory.

In such an environment, accountability depends less on institutions and more on insiders willing to speak. But insiders rarely do — because they know what happens to whistleblowers in the Philippines.

They lose jobs. They face harassment. Or worse.

They are sued, threatened, or socially isolated. Some are forced into hiding. Others recant under pressure. Without protection, telling the truth becomes an act of personal sacrifice rather than civic duty.

This is where the anting-anting metaphor becomes powerful.

Corrupt systems survive not because evidence is lacking, but because evidence is buried with the people who are too afraid to surface it.

A whistleblower law changes that equation.

Countries with strong whistleblower protections — from the United States to South Korea — have uncovered billion-dollar frauds, corporate corruption, and political wrongdoing precisely because insiders were shielded, incentivized, and legally defended.

The Philippines, by contrast, relies on ad hoc witness protection, which is narrow, slow, and often reactive.

A real whistleblower law would:

Most importantly, it would weaken the political anting-anting.

When insiders know they can speak safely, the myth of invincibility collapses.

Filipino election culture also plays a role. Campaigns are emotional, celebrity-driven, and fueled by name recall. Voters often choose familiar surnames over unfamiliar reformers.

This makes it easier for disgraced figures to return, especially when cases are unresolved or forgotten in the news cycle.

A steady stream of protected disclosures would keep accountability alive beyond headlines.

The Philippines does not lack investigative journalists, auditors, or prosecutors.

What it lacks are protected voices from within the system — the accountants, engineers, aides, clerks, and officers who see wrongdoing firsthand but remain silent out of fear.

Until they are protected, the anting-anting of impunity will remain.

And Philippine democracy will continue to depend on luck, outrage, and memory — instead of truth backed by law.

For the Philippines to rise to its full promise, it must finally break the old spell that has protected the powerful for generations.

The real anting-anting is not worn by those who plunder, but by a system that lets them return, rebrand, and rule again.

That spell is broken only when truth-tellers no longer stand alone.

A nation moves forward not when the corrupt feel untouchable, but when the honest feel unafraid.

Protect the whistleblower, and you strip impunity of its magic.