It is amusing, in the bleakest possible way, when Catholic-dominated Philippines and its Church-deferential media class casually brand other religions as “cults” the moment members of those groups stage political protests that disrupt traffic, classes, work, and business.

But when Catholics do the same thing—particularly when bishops themselves urge the faithful to take their politics to the streets—the tone suddenly changes. The disruption becomes civic duty. The inconvenience becomes moral witness. The spectacle becomes democracy in action. The same media that sneer at one religious crowd often turn reverent, even sycophantic, when the procession carries the more familiar cross.

The hypocrisy is not subtle. It is merely normalized.

Most religions preach some version of mercy, restraint, and humility before judgment. Yet history and daily life keep showing how easily those teachings are discarded when the target belongs to another church, another sect, another tribe. In the Philippines, even Catholics can turn vicious toward fellow Catholics who vote differently, worship differently, or question the wrong authority. The contempt only deepens when the other side belongs to a different denomination altogether.

This is why the sanctimony rings hollow. Religion is often sold as a civilizing force, a moral anchor, a path toward compassion. But too often, it becomes another uniform for tribal arrogance. It does not soften judgment; it blesses it. Too often, it does not make people kinder; it merely gives them holier words for their cruelty.

And when every side believes “heaven” has endorsed its prejudice, the world does not become more moral. It only becomes more comfortable mistaking prejudice for righteousness.

My fear is simple: what if the state-witness arrangement with former DPWH Secretary Manuel Bonoan becomes less about exposing the flood-control scandal and more about containing it?

In theory, turning an insider into a state witness can make sense. Corruption schemes are hard to prove through documents alone. You need someone who can explain how the machinery worked: who approved what, who pressured whom, who benefited, and how the paper trail was made to look legitimate.

But that logic becomes harder to accept when the insider is not a clerk, a contractor, or a middleman. Bonoan was the secretary of the very department at the center of the scandal. If someone at that level is offered immunity or practical protection, the public has every right to ask: protection in exchange for what?

The danger is a managed performance of accountability. Bonoan is converted from accused to witness. He names contractors, district engineers, technical officers, and other replaceable figures. A few people are sacrificed. The headlines announce progress. The government claims it is serious. But no political patrons are touched. No powerful beneficiaries are exposed. No major fish are caught.

That would be a betrayal dressed up as prosecution.

A state witness should not become a legal detergent for washing away the liability of someone near the top of the chain. If Bonoan truly knows how these projects moved, then his testimony should lead upward, outward, and inward — to the people who planned, protected, funded, approved, and profited from the scheme.

If all he delivers are fall guys, the public should not be impressed. It should be suspicious.

The test is not whether the government can produce names. It can always produce names. The test is whether those names reveal the real architecture of corruption. If the witness points only downward while the powerful remain safely outside the frame, then this is not accountability.

It is damage control.

There comes a point where we have to look at a tragedy and stop treating the perpetrator like a lost child who just made a terrible mistake. If a teenager is capable of planning an attack, acquiring a weapon, and carrying out an act that ends multiple lives, our legal system has to ask itself a deeply uncomfortable question: why does the offender’s age protect them more than the victims’ lives protect theirs? It starts to feel like we're sending a dangerous signal; that childhood can become a shield, even when it's used to cut other childhoods tragically short.

I know the juvenile justice system was built on genuinely compassionate ideals; the belief that young people deserve room to grow and change. But that compassion feels hollow, even insulting, when we're talking about premeditated violence. There is an unbridgeable gap between a kid caught shoplifting and a teenager who walks into a school with a weapon. Yes, rehabilitation matters; we can’t give up on the idea that people can turn their lives around. But rehabilitation without meaningful accountability starts to look less like justice and more like avoidance. We owe it to the victims; who were just as young and full of potential; to face that hard truth. They are not supporting characters in this story; they were children too, and any system that weighs the offender's age more heavily than their futures has lost its moral compass.

There is something revealing about Senator Kiko Pangilinan having to go on the defensive every time a minor commits a horrifying crime. If the Juvenile Justice Law were as firm, clear, and reassuring as its defenders claim, it would not need this much emergency explanation whenever blood is spilled. The fact that its author must repeatedly insist that the law is “not a get-out-of-jail card” only proves how easily it looks like one to the public.

One can already imagine the coming contortions: someone, somewhere, will try to explain (or politically exploit) these boys into heroism, as if murder becomes social commentary when committed by minors. No! Bullying, neglect, poverty, trauma, or institutional failure may explain parts of the story, but they do not ennoble the act! These were not rebels. They were not symbols. They were children who killed other children, and any politics that forgets that has crossed from compassion into obscenity.

Two young men died. One was a recruit from Mindanao, from a poor family, pursuing a dream that might have been his way to a better life. The other was a Nigerian student-athlete, far from home, trusting an elite institution with his future.

Both were valuable while they could play basketball, carry the school’s name and add to its prestige. After their deaths, however, their families were left demanding answers from people protected by lawyers, administrators and carefully prepared statements.

What did we initially see from Ateneo? Silence. Then controlled statements. Eventually, apologies, investigations and resignations; a response that arrived only after public anger, faculty criticism and government scrutiny.

The university president said the institution chose silence out of respect for the grieving families. But respect for whom? The families themselves were asking for answers. Silence may protect an investigation, but it can also protect an institution from having to confront uncomfortable questions in public.

This is what elitism looks like from below.

It is not merely expensive tuition, polished English or exclusive addresses. It is the confidence that powerful institutions may decide when ordinary people deserve explanations. It is the instinct to protect reputation before establishing accountability. It is the ability to invoke privacy, procedure and due process while grieving families plead publicly just to learn how their children died.

We ordinary Filipinos know this arrangement well. We are the workers who build their campuses, the crowds who fill their arenas and the public whose attention fuels their glory. But when something goes terribly wrong, we are reminded where we stand.

For the families, these deaths are permanent. For a powerful institution, they risk becoming a crisis to be managed: issue a statement, form a panel, accept a resignation, wait for the outrage to subside and eventually return to business.

Perhaps the investigations will establish responsibility. Perhaps policies will change. But I am skeptical that this tragedy will make any real dent in Philippine elitism. The system is larger than one coach, administrator or university. It survives because wealth and prestige soften consequences that would fall immediately and brutally upon ordinary people.

The rich will continue building their walls. The poor will continue living—and sometimes dying—in their shadows. The Ateneos of this country will apologize, reorganize and move forward.

Meanwhile, two families will never move forward in quite the same way.

Two young men entrusted their futures to a powerful institution. Their families must now fight for the truth about how those futures ended. That alone tells us who holds the power; and who is expected to bear its consequences.

I’ll admit it—I don’t really feel proud when I see how Filipinos celebrate Jordan Clarkson’s NBA championship with the New York Knicks. It kind of embarrasses me more than anything.

And look, it’s not that Clarkson doesn’t deserve praise. Winning an NBA title is a huge deal, and he actually contributed to it. What gets under my skin is this habit many Filipinos have of hunting for Filipino roots in any successful person’s family tree, then treating that person’s win like it’s our own national victory.

Now Clarkson is being called the “first Pinoy to win an NBA ring.” Local sports media repeats it so often that people act like it’s an undeniable fact. Some are even suggesting Congress should officially recognize him—because apparently, if there’s even a drop of Filipino blood in someone’s veins, the whole country needs to issue a formal thank you.

This is where things get messy.

Jordan Clarkson is American. He was born and raised in the U.S., learned basketball there, played college ball there, and built his NBA career there. The Philippines didn’t discover him, train him, or create the opportunities that led to his ring.

Yes, his Filipino ancestry is real. Let’s be clear: His maternal grandmother, Marcelina Tullao Kingsolver, was from Pampanga. His mom is part Filipino, and Clarkson is about one-quarter Filipino by ancestry.

He’s embraced that heritage, gotten a Philippine passport, and played for Gilas Pilipinas a few times. That’s real, and it shouldn’t be dismissed.

But we also shouldn’t blow it out of proportion.

FIBA classifies Clarkson as a naturalized player for the Philippines because of their eligibility rules—especially around when he got his passport. That’s a sporting classification, not a statement on whether he has a real connection to the country. Although he clearly does.

The most honest way to put it: Clarkson is the first Filipino-American—or the first NBA champion of Filipino descent—to win a ring. That’s accurate, specific, and still worth celebrating.

What gets ridiculous is when we drop all the qualifiers and start presenting him as simply a Filipino athlete whose championship belongs to the Philippines. That’s just soaking in someone else’s success. Turning their achievement into our own, just by repeating it enough times.

The hysterical Philippine sports media seems dead set on force-feeding this narrative. Maybe it’s harmless. Maybe people just want something to be happy about. And honestly, who am I to complain? Just some random person shouting into the void, easily drowned out by the roar of Pinoy pride.

Still, words should mean something. Jordan Clarkson is an American basketball player with genuine Filipino roots. He’s represented the Philippines, and that bond is real. But his NBA championship with the Knicks is his. Not yours.