I’LL admit it — I’ve been unusually compassionate in my last two columns.
First, there was Delusions of Distinguished Gentlemen, where I poked at aging politicians clinging to power like it was their birthright. Then came Why Are We Still Clapping?, a critique of sexism that, despite its sharp edges, ended with the uneasy truth that much of what we tolerate is baked into our culture. Compassion, I’ve realized, is my default when my moral compass gets rattled — a way of peeling back the layers without fully tearing them apart.
But this third and (hopefully) final piece in what now feels like an unplanned mini-series? It feels like the most fitting conclusion.
Because if there’s one thing worse than arrogance and sexism in public life, it’s the rot we can’t seem to name properly — the quiet normalization of wrongdoing that hides in plain sight. Watching a string of investigative films over the Holy Week break — from She Said to The Report — reminded me of something we don’t talk about enough: the difference between a legal problem and a sunlight problem. We are, sadly, experts at blurring that line.
A sunlight problem festers because it’s hidden. The moment it’s exposed, the weight of public opinion, embarrassment, or simple decency forces people to act. As Justice Louis Brandeis famously said, “Sunlight is said to be the best disinfectant.” A legal problem, on the other hand, breaks laws or regulations. It’s punishable and requires a legal remedy.
The danger lies in how we confuse the two, expecting courts to fix what merely needs exposure, or shrugging off outright crimes as if they were minor lapses.
Take, for instance, a modest road project. It’s inaugurated with the usual ribbon-cutting and a flood of social media posts. On paper, it meets all requirements. But locals know better: the cement cracks within weeks, and one rainstorm turns it into a swimming pool. No law was technically broken, but no one asks harder questions — who profited, how much it cost, and whether a contractor’s political connections greased the wheels. That’s a textbook sunlight problem.
Then there’s the unmistakable legal problem. In one government office, a top official allegedly ordered a building permit issued to a favored developer, despite missing documents and unpaid fees. The issuing office, unsurprisingly, complied. The expected “token of appreciation” quietly changed hands. Elsewhere, another official has been dipping into the calamity fund — or the famously murky intelligence fund — using public money to bankroll personal businesses or settle debts. These aren’t lapses in ethics; they’re criminal acts. Yet in a country where legal processes crawl and public attention shifts fast, many of these acts outlast scrutiny and reemerge clean in the next election cycle.
We see this everywhere: overpriced waiting sheds, lampposts costing as much as a small house, roads that need repairs twice a year because they were designed to fail. Few of these make it to court, but they chip away at public trust — a quiet erosion that’s hard to measure but easy to feel.
And we’ve grown used to shrugging. We let the Ombudsman or Commission on Audit handle things, but by the time reports surface, the money’s gone, the damage done, and the official rebranded as a reformist. Sunlight isn’t a tool reserved for senators or journalists. It’s ours too — and it starts when we bother to ask, “Why?”
Because not everything wrong is illegal, and not everything legal is right. Some problems need the force of law. But many more need to be seen.
And, after all this, we’ll finally learn how to look.
