“The Storm of Justice: When Corruption
and a Rotten "Modern" System Provokes Rebellion”
By Kat Ulrike
In the 21st century, in an age that prides itself on “smart” governance and digital sophistication, some still deny the existence of class struggle. Fencesitters—those who insist on caution and moderation—often claim, “Then you are uneducated. Then what? Are you happy to do it? Think first before you do it.” This was the refrain after observers attempted to justify the people’s anger that erupted into the riots in Indonesia.
The reality, however, is stark: the riots were not random acts of destruction but the result of righteous anger, driven by a government that consistently favors the corrupt status quo at the expense of the impoverished majority. The people have endured years of systemic betrayal, where promises of justice and due process exist only in rhetoric while the elite consolidate wealth and power. Fencesitters, pretending to be critics or moral arbiters, cry for “sobriety” and adherence to procedure—but their concern is often performative. The very people witnessing the injustice understand that the script is broken; repeated adherence to process has delivered neither safety nor accountability.
It is worth noting that these protesters, while bypassing due process, are ethically navigating a gray area born of desperation. Looting and rioting are not merely acts of anger—they are symbolic acts of reclaiming what has been stolen through corruption and negligence. Yes, chaos is messy. Yes, morality is complex. But the deeper truth remains: public trust in institutions has been systematically depleted. Ordinary citizens have witnessed enough scripted apologies, rehearsed statements, and superficial displays of unity. They are not rebelling for spectacle or personal gain—they are demanding justice, transparency, and meaningful structural change.
How come this moral urgency is so often dismissed? Many who critique these acts—fencesitters, self-proclaimed moderates, and so-called reformists—cling to the belief that “there’s hope in reforming the system,” as if moral compromise and endless patience can magically restore justice in a structure designed to protect the powerful. They often focus on individual culpability, blaming those deemed corrupt, while ignoring the broader systemic failures that perpetuate inequity and abuse.
But let the reader consider a deeper question: even in the absence of clearly corrupt individuals, if the system itself continues to institutionalize injustice and protect privilege, does the cycle of oppression truly end? Or is the very structure of governance, law, and economic distribution sufficient to perpetuate inequity, regardless of who sits in office? Those who rise in protest are often motivated by the conviction that another society is possible—a society where accountability, fairness, and dignity are not luxuries but guarantees.
Does the hope of reform invalidate this moral appeal? Absolutely not. To dismiss the protesters’ actions as rash or illegitimate is to ignore the historical and structural reality that when institutions fail consistently, ethical rebellion becomes a rational and necessary response. The moral weight of protest lies not only in the acts themselves but in their underlying purpose: the persistent and principled demand that governance serve the people, not the privileged few. To ignore this is to prioritize decorum over justice, appearances over reality, and the comfort of the elite over the survival and dignity of the majority.
Demanding accountability in the face of looming protest
Consider the Philippine context. Politicians and bureaucrats—some implicated in massive corruption scandals—already occupy the halls of power in Malacañang, Congress, and Local Government Units. Billions of pesos, money intended to protect citizens from calamities and safeguard livelihoods, have been siphoned away. The consequences are not abstract; they affect flood protection, disaster response, public health, and the very safety of millions of Filipinos. The outrage is not about burning buildings or overturning cars. It is about a government that consistently fails to protect its people, betraying not just wealth but life itself.
One of the most egregious examples involves the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH), which has been at the center of a massive scandal concerning over ₱350 billion allocated for flood control and related infrastructure projects. Investigations by the Commission on Audit (COA) and other oversight bodies revealed that out of 9,855 projects funded under various programs, including the National Irrigation Administration’s rehabilitation efforts, a staggering 6,021 had no clear documentation or evidence of what was actually built, repaired, or rehabilitated. Reports highlighted ghost projects, inflated costs, and substandard or non-existent constructions in flood-prone areas, leaving millions of Filipinos vulnerable to annual typhoons and disasters. This scandal, which came to light in audits covering 2022-2024, has prompted calls for criminal probes and the resignation of key officials, as taxpayers question where their hard-earned money has vanished and why essential safety measures remain unfulfilled despite billions poured into the system.
Compounding this issue is the ongoing controversy surrounding Vice President Sara Duterte, who faced an impeachment complaint in late 2024 over alleged misuse of confidential and intelligence funds (CIF) totaling over ₱600 million during her tenure as education secretary. Accusations included diverting funds for personal or political purposes, such as lavish expenditures unrelated to national security, alongside threats made against President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. and other officials amid escalating political tensions between the Duterte and Marcos camps. Although the Supreme Court ruled the impeachment process unconstitutional in early 2025, citing procedural flaws and overreach by the House of Representatives, the decision has done little to dispel public skepticism. Critics argue it exemplifies how the elite shield themselves from accountability, further deepening divisions and perceptions of a politicized justice system.
These cases are far from isolated; they form part of a broader pattern of corruption that has ensnared multiple agencies and figures in recent years. For instance, the Philippine National Police (PNP) has been embroiled in the so-called “P6.7 billion extortion scandal” uncovered in 2023-2024, where high-ranking officers were accused of running a syndicate that extorted money from illegal Philippine Offshore Gaming Operators (POGOs) and other criminal enterprises. This racket allegedly involved kidnapping, human trafficking, and laundering proceeds, leading to the dismissal of several generals and exposing ties to organized crime within law enforcement. Similarly, the Department of Health (DOH) faced renewed scrutiny in 2024 over the lingering Pharmally scandal from the Duterte era, with fresh audits revealing overpriced medical supplies and procurement irregularities worth billions during the COVID-19 pandemic—issues that continue to haunt the agency amid ongoing Senate hearings.
Another notable case is the 2023 scandal involving the Bureau of Customs (BOC), where officials were implicated in smuggling operations that allowed billions of pesos worth of illegal goods, including rice and agricultural products, to enter the country unchecked. This not only deprived the government of revenue but also exacerbated food inflation and insecurity for ordinary Filipinos. In the education sector, beyond Duterte’s impeachment woes, there were revelations in 2024 about the misuse of the Department of Education's (DepEd) budget for confidential funds, with ₱90 million reportedly unaccounted for in a single year, sparking investigations into ghost employees and unauthorized disbursements.
These scandals collectively highlight a systemic crisis: entrenched corruption, weak oversight mechanisms, and a culture of impunity at the highest levels of government.
From infrastructure boondoggles that fail to protect communities from natural calamities to the blatant abuse of public funds by elected leaders, the pattern is clear—resources meant for the people’s upliftment are siphoned off, leaving essential services underfunded and vulnerable populations at risk. The Filipino people are not just angry; they are mobilizing through protests, social media campaigns, and calls for international intervention to demand accountability and justice. The question is not whether the system is broken—it unequivocally is—but how much longer the people will tolerate its failure before pushing for radical change, such as stronger anti-corruption laws, independent audits, and electoral reforms to restore faith in governance. As these issues persist into 2025, the pressure mounts for leaders to act decisively or face the consequences of a disillusioned populace.
The Limits of Sobriety: When Demands Followed by Outrage
In other countries, the demand for accountability can erupt with even greater intensity, yet critics still cry for “sobriety” and strict adherence to due process, often ignoring the depth and legitimacy of public anger. Recently, in Indonesia, this tension reached a breaking point. Citizens took to the streets in mass protests after news broke that government housing allowances for members of parliament were nearly ten times the minimum wage in Jakarta, a figure that highlighted the stark disparity between lawmakers and ordinary citizens struggling to survive under austerity.
The public’s fury was compounded by simultaneous government measures under President Prabowo that imposed strict austerity, including cuts to education, healthcare, and public infrastructure projects. These policies disproportionately affected the poor and working class, exacerbating social inequality while elites enjoyed continued privileges.
The demonstrators were also protesting against what they termed “corrupt elites” within the government and policies that favored conglomerates and the military, according to a press release from the student group Gejayan Memanggil. Their statement reflected growing concern about the expanding role of the military in civilian life under Prabowo’s administration—a trend that many fear undermines democracy and concentrates power in unaccountable institutions. The protests, which began peacefully, quickly spread across the country and escalated into violent confrontations on Friday after the death of 21-year-old delivery driver Affan Kurniawan in Jakarta. Footage circulated showing an armored vehicle belonging to the elite paramilitary police unit running over Affan as it plowed through a crowd of demonstrators late on Thursday. His death became a rallying point for protesters, crystallizing years of accumulated frustration at economic inequality, political favoritism, and state violence.
It is No “Dinner Party”: Regardless of Attempts to Make it That Way
These events illustrate the undeniable force of public outrage when institutional accountability fails. They underscore that calls for moderation or patience—however well-meaning in principle—can appear hollow in the face of structural injustice. When people are systematically denied fairness, protection, and representation, anger does not dissipate; it intensifies, often spilling into action that those in power find difficult to contain. The Indonesian protests serve as a stark reminder of the limits of patience and the power of collective moral outrage.
It is not surprising that people initially hoped for a “peaceful one,” even as the situation became catastrophic, exemplified by the killing of a 21-year-old delivery driver by authorities. Who, in the face of a populace suddenly armed with pitchforks, wanted it to remain a “dinner party”? Obviously, these fencesitters did—they clung to the belief that something could be salvaged within a rotten system, claiming there was still “useful” to extract. But the people knew better. There is nothing of value in a decayed order, a lesson painfully underscored by the staged and ultimately hollow celebrations of EDSA.
Fencesitters may further insist that those who protest—or especially those who resort to looting—are “paid” or manipulated, as if citizens asserting their rights are puppets of agitators. This argument ignores the root cause: the system itself provoked the people. Corruption, neglect, and impunity are the provocations. The moral calculus is clear—when the elite steal lives, safety, and opportunity, the people’s retribution, though messy, is an understandable and, in many ways, necessary response. Moral high ground alone does not feed the hungry; ethical posturing does not restore lives lost to mismanagement or calamity.
As Thomas Aquinas wrote on the morality of war: “A war is just if it is declared and waged by the proper authority, for a just cause, and with the right intention.” While Aquinas addressed warfare, the principle is instructive here: action taken against a corrupt and unjust authority, with the aim of protecting the innocent and restoring justice, aligns with the moral framework of a “just cause.” The protests and uprisings, then, are not mere chaos—they are an ethically grounded assertion of justice against systemic wrongdoing.
Let people admit the inconvenient truth: class struggle persists, regardless of the rhetoric of “democracy,” “good governance,” or “capitalist fairness.” Semi-feudalism, cronyism, and the consolidation of political and economic power cannot erase the inequities that drive the oppressed to action. Those who riot or rebel are not merely violent—they are asserting their humanity against a system designed to deny it. And if the people’s anger reaches its peak, if the elite continue to provoke and exploit, the eruption of unrest becomes not only inevitable but morally justified.
At its core, this is a simple but profound principle: when governance fails its people, rebellion is not only a right—it is a necessity.