Part 2 of 3 – The Death of Disclosure

Transparency in the Philippines didn’t die from neglect. It was murdered slowly, bureaucratically, and in plain sight.

The weapon was paperwork. The scene of the crime was the Office of the Ombudsman. And the victim was the people’s right to know.

In 2012, shortly after the impeachment of Chief Justice Renato Corona, the one time a Statement of Assets, Liabilities, and Net Worth (SALN) led to accountability, the Ombudsman quietly rewrote the rules. Citing “privacy” and “protection from harassment,” it imposed severe restrictions on public access to SALNs.

The timing was poetic and poisonous. The instrument that had just proven its power to reveal corruption was immediately defanged.

The Wall of Paper

Before 2012, anyone could request a public official’s SALN. Journalists, academics, and watchdogs used it to trace wealth, spot conflicts of interest, and track political dynasties’ accumulation of assets.

After 2012, that access vanished behind a wall of procedures. Requests now required the official’s written consent or the Ombudsman’s approval. The result was predictable: a nation that had just seen what transparency could achieve was told to forget how to use it.

It was the bureaucratic version of witness protection, except the witness was the truth.

From Sunlight to Shadow

The restriction transformed the SALN from a transparency document into a state secret. The act of filing remained mandatory, but public scrutiny became optional.

The move didn’t just curtail access; it altered expectations. Agencies stopped cross-checking disclosures. Journalists stopped filing requests that would never be granted. The public stopped asking.

That is how accountability dies, not with a coup, but with a memo.

The Culture of Concealment

The Ombudsman’s argument, i.e., that limiting access protects officials from harassment, is bureaucratic gaslighting. Corruption thrives not because the guilty are harassed, but because the innocent are silenced.

By invoking “privacy,” the state redefined public office as private property. Officials now behave as if their finances are personal matters, not public indicators of integrity.

This inversion of values has consequences. It breeds the kind of entitlement that sees public wealth as private inheritance and public scrutiny as intrusion.

We have built a republic where accountability must now ask for permission.

The Corona Lesson Reversed

The Corona impeachment was supposed to be the high-water mark of Philippine transparency: the proof that no official, however powerful, is above disclosure. Instead, it became the turning point for the opposite lesson: never let your paper trail catch up to your power.

Since then, not a single major official has faced real consequence through their SALN. We no longer audit honesty; we notarize it.

The Global Irony

Around the world, digital disclosure is expanding. In nations serious about accountability, asset declarations are searchable databases: open, cross-referenced, and verifiable.

In the Philippines, we moved backwards. We built a democracy where you can watch a senator livestream his workout, but you can’t see his bank account. We post selfies from official trips but redact the receipts that paid for them.

Ours is not transparency; it’s performance art.

The Cost of Secrecy

The Ombudsman’s restrictions did more than limit access; they legitimized concealment. When the state itself hoards information, it teaches every public official to do the same.

That culture seeps downward: from Cabinet to Congress, from local governments to barangay halls. Today, even basic procurement data requires a Freedom of Information request that dies in committee. We are a democracy allergic to daylight.

Final Word

Transparency without access is deception. When the Ombudsman closed the door on public scrutiny, it didn’t just protect officials; it buried accountability under layers of red tape.

The SALN was designed to reveal who serves and who steals. Now it merely shows who signs.

And so, the death of disclosure was not an accident. It was policy. It told a generation of politicians that hiding is safer than honesty and taught a generation of citizens that truth, in this Republic, must always knock before it enters.