Let’s just say so many interesting things happened to me this week—for example, an opinion piece from this very space going viral and stirring talks in high places [as well as low].
But one other thing that happened, of which I have no interest at all in elaborating, both disturbed and amused me—because it reeked so much of privilege, arrogance, and unprovoked show of toxicity. In the end, it just was not worth being troubled about.
One thing that slightly disturbed me, though, was the avalanche of responses to that thing that were essentially approving high-fives to the instigator. Some were by people I knew. And it got me thinking: people like to be thought of as “good people”—so how come they cannot recognize when something definitely “not good” unfolds in front of their faces?
Then again:
Why are there Hitler apologists?
Why did people vote Marcoleta into the Senate?
Why are there Vico Sotto bashers?
Why did someone like Leni—who proved herself capable of fantastic governance one thousand times over, and is now proving that again as mayor of Naga City—lose in the last presidential election?
How did a white supremacist move so many so-called Christians to swooning adoration?
Why are there Elon Musk diehards?
Why are people attracted to bad people? And why do these people often win?
I mean, come on, they win. Some may be in hot water now, given the corruption scandals exploding everywhere, but they are crying from being cancelled from the posh confines of their mansions, their garages still bursting with luxury cars, their safes still bursting with ill-gotten money. And the inconveniences they are feeling right now are totally of another variety. Heart Evangelista, for example, bemoans missing Fashion Week (!!!) in New York, London, Milan, and Paris, on account of her politician husband Chiz Escudero being under scrutiny for allegedly coddling contractors. “I’m sorry to my fans that I’m not going to fashion week,” she wrote in her Instagram. “I know that you guys say laban—I really appreciate you but honestly, I don’t think it’s the right time for anyone, especially from our country, to be going to fashion week because I think we need to be here.”
Lahi ra jud.
Let’s be honest. Most of the wealthy in the world have gotten where they are either by connection, or inherited wealth and privilege, or illegal maneuverings, and most of them have kept their wealth because they are inured to the one fact about capitalism that makes the system work: for one to earn profit, there must be exploitation.
It’s never really about hard work, although that’s the Horatio Alger myth we have been taught to believe. I know so many poor people who work harder than most, but they’re still poor—but I really don’t want this essay to be a lecture on Marxism.
I’ve made my peace about money years ago. With the kind of purpose I have built for myself—and I am, after all, a “mere” teacher and writer who is poor [somebody’s words]—I know I will never be rich. Unless I win the lotto. I’m not even compensated well for the talent [and hard work] I bring to projects! But I know that sometimes there are “opportunities” offered to you, especially if you are not rich, that will ask you to bend your sense of morality and succumb—because the temptation is just too immense, and it can happen to the best of people.
You run for public office on a platform of good governance—and then the temptation comes from political forces around you that’s difficult to shake off. You enter a certain government agency hoping to become a good civil servant—and then on your first week at work, you find an envelope of “balato” on your desk, your “share” of something-something after the big boss had taken their cut. You are a good engineer and you become entrepreneurial by forming a construction company—and then you realize that the only way to get contracts is to bend to the shenanigans of politicians. But, look, you get to have fancy, expensive cars in return!
We can recognize the beginning of such temptations as small “starting points” that become big. It will always start small. Just this once, probably they all say. I just need the money now. And then you do get the money and find out it comes with bigger and bigger perks. A nice motorcycle. Which becomes a nice car. Which becomes a nice house. Which becomes a nice series of vacations abroad. Which becomes an even nicer house. Which becomes a garage full of expensive cars. The temptation becomes endless, and for many of these people, they do feel like all these are deserved, like these good things are their due. Take note what Claudine Co, a privileged daughter of Zaldy Co, recently said: “Like hello? Wala kaming utang na loob sa mga Pilipino, okay? This is not from taxpayers’ money, the government literally paid us for the service that our business provided. Gets?” The disconnect, and the sense of privilege, is bewildering and maddening.
* * *
I’ve seen this kind of slow corruption happen to a good friend. A really nice guy. Was a scholarship student working through school. Entered government service, and was in a position to oversee public works—and soon he’s building a really nice and fancy house that’s obviously not commensurate to his pay grade. What happened?
This is why I have told my closest friends: “If ever you see that I’m about to be tempted to do something fishy in return for small glittering gains, tell me.”
But something has to be said about actual bad people, winning. It’s 2016, and Uber is melting down in the United States. Travis Kalanick, its CEO, is being pushed out after years of brazen exploitation and abuse, but he walks away with billions, retreats into a Beverly Hills mansion, and still finds new ventures to toy with. It’s a familiar story: the bully, the narcissist, the liar—not only surviving, but thriving. One even became President of the United States!
And it’s not just in Silicon Valley. Here in the Philippines, the story takes on its own provincial flavors. You don’t have to look far. Politicians caught red-handed in corruption scandals, their hands literally in the cookie jar, are re-elected by landslide margins after a few months of “PR rehabilitation.” [Remember Bong Revilla doing that stupid dance in his successful campaign for the Senate, years after being ensnared in a corruption scandal?] Businessmen who exploit workers, pay starvation wages, and avoid taxes are celebrated on glossy magazine covers as “visionaries.” Religious leaders who fleece their flock in exchange for “miracles” become untouchable celebrities.
Meanwhile, the honest, the diligent, the quiet—burned out, broke, and invisible—continue to toil away, unseen.
If this feels backwards, it’s because it is. But it’s not random. There is a logic to it, a brutal one.
From childhood, Filipinos are taught the old catechism of virtue: be kind, play fair, respect elders, share. Sa kabutihan, may gantimpala. And, for a while, in the microcosm of the family, the barkada, or the barangay, this holds true. Do good, and you get good back. Altruism works in small groups where everyone knows everyone’s business, where reputations matter. But when we grow up and enter the larger systems—politics, corporations, institutions—that logic unfortunately unravels.
Our human instincts, you see, are built for intimacy, for small communities where wrongdoing is immediate and visible. For example, if you see a child on the streets of Manila being abused, you’d feel outrage and maybe even intervene. But when that same child becomes a statistic, tucked away in government reports about child labor in Zamboanga or sex trafficking in Angeles City, the outrage dissipates. Because unseen. The cruelty now hides behind bureaucracy, media spin, and our limited attention. Out of sight, out of mind. And because of this distance, we become numb. We buy the cheap clothes made in sweatshops, we watch the influencers paid for by the corrupt, we shrug at the news because it feels too overwhelming.
This dilution of moral clarity opens the stage for those who thrive in noise, spectacle, and manipulation. And we’ve had plenty of them: Imelda Marcos with her 3,000 pairs of shoes, Rodrigo Duterte with his bloody bravado, Manny Villar with his property empire built over graves of displacement. They understood something most of us don’t: that in the Philippines, as in the world, power does not reward virtue. It rewards cunning, ruthlessness, and an ability to command attention.
Niccolo Machiavelli saw this centuries ago in Italy, in a time where poisonings and back stabbings actually ruled politics. His lesson—better to be feared than loved—echoes still through Malacañang, through Congress, and even perhaps through our barangay halls. What harms you in small communities—narcissism, manipulation, ruthlessness—can actually reward you immensely in national politics or billion-peso businesses.
Psychologists today call the constellation of traits these people exhibit as the “dark triad”: Machiavellianism, narcissism, and psychopathy. And don’t we know these types?
The Machiavellian trapo who kisses babies during campaigns but steals calamity funds in the aftermath of typhoons. The narcissistic influencer who treats every tragedy as a backdrop for self-promotion. The psychopathic warlord who orders killings without remorse and still wins a Senate seat. They manipulate, they deceive, they threaten, and—because they’re louder and bolder—they rise.
* * *
And yet, there’s a trick here. We only see the bad “winners,” not the countless failures. For every politician who spins historical revisionism into a political victory, there are dozens of corrupt scions of dynasties who crash and burn, their names forgotten except as cautionary tales whispered in our towns and cities. For every business leader who builds a retail empire, there are a hundred ambitious taipans whose malls rot half-finished along provincial highways. The failures don’t trend, however; only the “victories” do. And that is why we believe the worst people always win.
But remember, even among those who seem to triumph, their victories are actually brittle. Elizabeth Holmes, for example, had her Theranos dream implode. Here in the Philippines, think of Janet Napoles, once untouchable, now languishing in jail. Or Antonio Floirendo Sr., stripped of privilege and humiliated in scandal. Success built on lies creates blind spots. When you see people as pawns or prey, you don’t build resilience—you build delusions.
And there is a price: not just the collapse of reputation, but the corrosion of self. We call this guilt. It is the part of you that keeps you human. Without guilt, there is no compass, no correction. And when our bad deeds unencumbered by guilt comes crashing back, they drag shame and regret with them.
So yes, the system is rigged. The worst sometimes rise, the best often overlooked.
But this doesn’t mean the decent are doomed.
It means they must adapt.
The lesson is not to become ruthless, according to Mark Manson in a YouTube video essay, but to do these three things: first, to become strategically compassionate, to understand that empathy can overwhelm in a complex world, but compassion—clear-eyed, balanced—can sustain you.
Second, to let go of universal approval. Wanting everyone to like you is its own subtle narcissism, and in this country, where utang na loob and pakikisama often silence people, it’s downright dangerous. Sometimes you must risk being disliked, even vilified, just to do what is right. [Like being called “bayut” and being laughed at by 500+ people! That one amused me.]
And third, crucially, to learn to speak up. The Philippines is a nation where silence has too often been complicity—during martial law, during the drug war, during countless “pork barrel” scandals. To be quiet is to be erased. According to Manson, to speak, even if uncertain, is to be remembered.
The challenge for us is not to mimic the worst people but to learn what they get right about power: visibility, boldness, audacity. And then to wield those with integrity. Because in the long run, history may glamorize tyrants, but it also burns them down. What survives are not the narcissists and bullies, but the memory of those who dared to live with compassion, courage, and yes, a little bit of cunning.
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