Remembering Hope

Two Saturdays ago, I heard of Cory Aquino’s death and was rather surprised to find myself deeply affected. I was gripped by a feeling that was part sadness, part nostalgia, and part… something else. It took me a while to identify what that “something else” was, but eventually I recognized it for what it was — the faint, bittersweet remembrance of youthful hope.

Cory Aquino’s presidential campaign and the popular uprising that followed it 23 years ago probably means a lot of things to different people. But for me, it will always be the time that I fell in love, fatally and irrevocably, with the idea of what our country could be.

I suppose it was unavoidable that my impressionable 12-year old mind would become enamored with the excitement for change that so charged the air then. Cory’s candidacy at the time did not only represent something better than the status quo, i.e. an improvement from the Marcos regime, but was a beacon for the nation’s long pent-up enthusiasm for change. And when the EDSA uprising came and catapulted Cory to the presidency, despite the best (or perhaps worst) efforts of the forces supporting the old regime, it seemed the perfect affirmation of our faith in the boundless possibilities of such enthusiasm.

Of course, later, the disappointments would come. The massacre at Mendiola, the (re)institution of the total war policy, the unthinking assumption of illegitimate public debts – these and other decisions by “President Cory” would eventually dampen even the seemingly limitless enthusiasm of the campaign and at EDSA. The “Cory magic” would eventually fade in the face of harsh, unforgiving Philippine reality.

Still, having felt that wonder once, I never quite looked at that “reality” the same way. The most serious social problems were simply challenges that would inevitably be overcome, obstacles to be swept aside by sheer effort of will, by our indefatigable belief in ourselves and in the power of our collective enthusiasm. No matter how overwhelming our nation’s troubles seemed, the hope, no, the conviction, that that better community, that better country, that better world we craved, always remained within our grasp if we worked hard enough, if we trusted in ourselves and in our fellows enough, never faltered.

Half a decade after EDSA, when as an undergraduate at the University of the Philippines I marched against the Cory government’s plan to extend the Bases Agreement with the United States, it was, quite ironically, this selfsame conviction, born during the Cory campaign, that lay at the heart of my motivations.

The years, of course, eventually took their toll even on this remnant of hope that I took from EDSA. Though I forsook academic achievement and a mainstream career in favor of continued involvement in what can only be broadly called “the progressive movement” (in a vague, distant sort of tribute to something briefly glimpsed in 1986), disappointment, frustration, cynicism, and plain weariness ultimately reduced that fierce, vibrant hope into a dull throb of dissatisfaction. Enthusiasm for change gave way to anger with the status quo. It became more important to crush the oppressors than to build a future for the oppressed. Hope became hate.

Every so often, though, that dull ache of dissatisfaction would flare up, somewhat painfully, into a semblance of the old, lost optimism.

Two Saturdays ago was one such moment.

Cory Aquino’s death opened the way for a celebration of her life. And fairly or unfairly, it once again reemphasized for many, including myself, that 23 years ago, she symbolized the power of possibility. Her passing, and the outpouring of support and gratitude that emerged in response to it, helped me remember that at the core of our dissatisfaction with our current leaders, at the heart of our frustration with our country’s woes, is that belief, deeply buried though it may be, that we still can build a better world.

I would like to think that in the end, the social change so many of us crave will not be brought about by the jaded cynics, but by those who continue to hope, and to dream. Cory’s triumph in 1986 proved that those who hope can wage a successful struggle. Cory’s passing now reminds us that those who struggle must not neglect to hope.

Institutionalizing morality

An interesting, if not exactly novel, point was raised in a forum I was at yesterday. In essence, it contends that the more serious concern with respect to the Philippine government and legal system is not the inadequacy or inefficacy of our current laws, but the character of the public officials implementing them.

Now normally, as I’ve indicated, this would hardly be a new argument. After all, I’ve heard it, perhaps phrased slightly differently, from countless fellow citizens, usually as a prelude to some appeal for greater “spirituality” in society. But with no less than the Chief Justice, our highest judicial officer, stating just last week that what the country needed was “moral force,” I think that the position merits some discussion.

To start with, I have to say that on the most basic, instinctive level, I find the first part of the argument appealing. Who wouldn’t, particularly in a country where public “servants” already awash in cash have no qualms about dipping further into an already depleted national treasury while cash-strapped taxi drivers, for all their poverty, nonetheless see fit to return thousands of pesos inadvertently left in their cabs. It’s easy enough to see that personal “character” and “morals” must play a role there somewhere.

But it is with the other component of the position that I have some difficulty with. I mean sure, we could certainly use more honest and upright women and men in government, but does this necessarily have to preclude changing the existing legal system as well?

Ideally, laws are in place precisely to encourage certain kinds of behavior and to discourage others. Granted, law and language being as subject to “interpretation” as they are, they will not always be used or followed in the manner originally “intended.” However, I do not think that this “uncertainty” in legal text unavoidably implies that one law (or one way of phrasing a law) is as good as any other. In other words, the impossibility of coming up with an ultimately idiot-proof (or perhaps, tyrant-proof) legal text should not be a justification for not striving to come up with a tighter formulation.

Just take the case of many of our public laws, a significant portion of which were enacted under the less than ideal conditions of the Martial Law regime. Or take the case of our law on inciting to sedition, which is still largely based on statutes enacted by the Americans during the early years of colonization. These laws, which we continue to observe to this day, given their context and original purpose, are, quite unsurprisingly, heavily biased toward upholding executive power as against the power of a popularly elected legislature, and the right of citizens to free speech.

I suppose we can argue that if we had a “good” President, who had a strong personal commitment to democratic ideals, it would not matter if these laws were still on the books — she or he would simply not apply them in a manner which tended to stifle democratic discourse. But that does that mean we should leave them as is, crossing our fingers that that “good” President comes to power? Or do we try and change them, making it more difficult for these laws to be “interpreted” in an abusive or oppressive manner, just in case we get a “bad” President?

Personally, I’d rather we hedge our bets.

Friday Night Lights

Last Friday, somewhat to my surprise and slightly against my initial inclinations, I found myself at the detention center in Camp Crame, visiting the detainees from the Manila Peninsula incident of the previous day. I had come to act as counsel in the inquest proceedings set for that evening, representing Dodong Nemenzo, the former UP President, and a man I personally held in the highest esteem, both for his ideas and his ideals.

While waiting for the inquest to start (it was scheduled for 8 PM, but consistent with typical “Filipino-time,” actually began almost two hours later) I stayed inside the detention center and talked with some of the other detainees. Far from being the dour and serious affairs most people would probably expect (after all, we were in a detention area in the middle of a military camp, surrounded by several thousand armed police officers, and the people I was with stood accused, rightly or wrongly, of attempting to overthrow the government), the conversation was, for the most part, light and even humorous. A perfect complement, I suppose, to the surreal fact that from the Crame detention center, you could clearly see the lights from the bars and restaurants in nearby Greenhills. This probably stands as proof positive that we Filipinos are a cheerful, or at the very least, a resilient people — we can find it in ourselves to laugh and trade bad puns while undergoing detention for rebellion.

Of course, not all the conversations I had that Friday evening involved joking around. One which stands out in particular is the talk I had with the sometimes admired, oftentimes reviled icon of anti-administration sentiment, Senator Antonio Trillanes IV.

I must confess at the outset that when I came to Crame that Friday, I did not really count myself as a Trillanes fan. I mean, yeah, I was thrilled that more than 11 million Filipinos voted him into the Senate last May (if the COMELEC hadn’t “misplaced” my voter record, I would probably have even cast my lot with them). But this was really more because I saw him as a symbol of resistance, rather than actually agreeing with the actions he had chosen to undertake. Taking over a luxury residence in Makati, and then surrendering after 23 hours is not exactly my notion of effective political action. And the events of the previous day had not exactly done much to lessen my cynicism. If anything, Manila Pen in 2007 seemed a smaller-scale, less successful (if there is such a thing) version of Oakwood in 2003.

That said, however, despite a full supply of cynicism and lawyerly skepticism, I came away from Crame last Friday, counting myself as a Trillanes fan.

I do not mean that I agree with what he did (however various observers may choose to construe it). But I’d like to think that I at least came to understand in part why he did it. And it is for those reasons that I have come to admire the man.

What struck me most was Trillanes’ overwhelming, overpowering sincerity. The man is a believer. Not simply in the righteousness of his own cause, after all, even Jovito Palparan is probably completely convinced of his own virtue, but more significantly, in the capacity of Filipinos to recognize what is right and act accordingly. Responding to a point raised about the difficulty in getting people to mass up at a distant, inaccessible Makati hotel on a rainy Thursday, Trillanes quite simply stated that he believed that “people should be willing to walk a mile in the rain for their country.” Up to now, I am awed by such faith in us Filipinos.

While many of us may criticize the impracticality, or even the outright naivety, of this view, we have to acknowledge its compelling character. For two and a half years, efforts to stand up to the GMA regime — a regime that has consistently proven itself to be ruthless, corrupt, and utterly bereft of moral or legal scruples — have been bedeviled by questions of practicality and expediency. Who, or what, do we replace her with? How do we go about it? Who do we accept as allies? Without necessarily dismissing the legitimacy of these concerns, I think the time has come to ask ourselves if in focusing on the logistics of the struggle, we have wavered in our conviction to wage it in the first place.

And maybe that is why, last Friday, I became a Trillanes fan. For despite all our condescension towards his “political naivety,” and all our snide remarks regarding the “inept” way he carried out the Manila Peninsula affair, he remains a man who dared to act on the outrage that still roars so fiercely in our hearts.

On the Alston Report

Was writing this brief comment on the Final Report of UN Special Rapporteur Philip Alston — my professor at NYU as it so happens — when the Manila Peninsula “incident” took place. Distractions and all, it came out in the Inquirer on Saturday, December 1.

Earlier this week, Philip Alston, the United Nations Special Rapporteur on Extrajudicial Executions, released his final report on the extrajudicial killings in the Philippines. Consistent with Alston’s earlier public pronouncements on the issue, the report concluded that responsibility for most of the killings, particularly those of leftist activists, could be laid at the doorstep of the military.

According to the report, these extrajudicial executions were carried out as part of a military counter-insurgency strategy which targets leaders and members of “front” organizations of the CPP-NPA. The “official line” of the AFP that the killings were the result of internal purges within the ranks of the communist insurgency was dismissed as being “strikingly unconvincing.”

The report, however, did not stop there. While dismissing the military’s theory of internal purge, it nonetheless recognized the responsibility of the CPP-NPA for some extrajudicial executions, most notably the murder of civilians under the guise of “revolutionary justice,” and the killing of peasants in the course of agrarian reform disputes. The report was just as firm in characterizing these CPP-NPA killings as being clear violations of international law.

Responses to the report have thus far run along predictable lines. A spokesperson for the President was quick to deny that there was an official “policy” supporting the killings. The PNP doggedly insisted that the report was merely an “opinion” and that any of its findings should be supported by “evidence which could stand in a court of law.” On the other side, the party-list groups Bayan Muna, Anakpawis, and Gabriela immediately called for the sacking of top defense officials for their culpability in the killings, while remaining silent on the report’s similarly firm indictment of the CPP-NPA.

These initial reactions, anchored as they are on the vested political interests of these various groups, fail to adequately grasp the purpose and full import of the Alston report.

To begin with, the principal objective of a report by a special rapporteur is to assess a State’s compliance with its legal obligations in a given area under international law. Hence, the report opens with an enumeration of applicable treaties that the Philippines has ratified, namely the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and the Geneva Conventions. These form the legal basis for Philippine obligations with respect to the issue of extrajudicial killings.

These obligations, according to a familiar mantra, are those to respect, protect, and fulfill, in this specific case the right of persons to life and to judicial process. The obligation to “respect” requires government to refrain from engaging in extrajudicial killings. The obligation to “protect” mandates government to prevent third parties, whether rogue soldiers or armed insurgents, from doing the same. The obligation to “fulfill” compels government to put in place the necessary mechanisms, such as courts clothed with adequate powers, to ensure enjoyment of the rights.

Under this framework, it does not matter if government does not formally adopt a policy condoning the killings. It still is in breach of its obligations so long as the killings are perpetrated by its agents, in this case the military, and it fails to take appropriate actions to stop them and enforce liability on the perpetrators.

Similarly, as the report is concerned with the larger issue of State compliance, it should not be characterized in the same manner as a criminal investigation. Insistence on the report following the formal rules of evidence observed by courts is misplaced, since what is at issue is not individual criminal culpability, but the adequacy of State action with respect to its obligations under international human rights law.

The fairness or validity of the report, rather, should be assessed by the methodology utilized in collecting the information on which it was based. In the case of the Alston report, it was anchored on extensive interviews from the government, military, and civil society, as well as documents provided by these same groups. In other words, its conclusions are derived from weighing of the information from various, undoubtedly contradictory, sources.

That the report paints a grim picture of the Philippine situation cannot be denied. But rather than viewing it as a public relations dilemma that has to be “handled” or dismissed, government should take up the real challenge of acting on the recommendations set forth in the report. After all, Alston’s investigation was done at the behest of the Philippine government itself. It would be the height of obtuseness, not to mention absurdity, for the government to dismiss the selfsame findings it sought.

Christmas Grifts

Last Thursday, at a breakfast meeting between GMA and around 190 of her congressional allies, it was reported that envelopes containing amounts between P200,000 to P500,000 were distributed. At another meeting held a few hours later, this time between the President and local government officials, more of the money-filled envelopes were given out.

So far, two people have publicly confirmed the cash distribution. The first, Cebu congressman Antonio Cuenco, in a radio interview, stated that the P200,000 was a “Christmas gift.” Later, perhaps realizing that this admission may have been a bit too honest, Cuenco backtracked and said he was merely “joking.” The second was Pampanga Governor Ed Panlilio, who claimed that while he was walking toward his car, he was given P500,000 in a brown paper gift bag by a Malacañang staffer for “barangay projects.”

Even going solely by appearances, there is something extremely suspicious about putting huge sums of cash in envelopes and paper bags and handing them out to public officials. In a government bureaucracy that has created an entire culture out of paperwork and red tape, where money disbursements are made though checks and supported by countless written approvals and endorsements, it is strange to see cash handed out in such a fashion – casually and seemingly without a paper trail. It is a practice you would expect from drug dealers or jueteng operators, but certainly not from upright members of the public service.

However, going by the explanations given by Cuenco and Father Ed, the whole matter crosses over from merely “looking suspicious” to becoming “outrightly illegal.”

The Revised Penal Code states that the crime of indirect bribery is committed by a “public officer who shall accept gifts offered to him by reason of his office.” Similarly, PD 46 makes it crime for “any public official and employee… to receive, directly or indirectly… any gift, present or other valuable things on any occasion, including Christmas, when such gift, present or other valuable thing is given by reason of his official position.”

Clearly therefore, attempting to justify the receipt of P200,000 in cash by calling it a “Christmas gift” only makes it more obviously illegal under the law.

Packaging the distribution as disbursements for “barangay projects” or some other public purpose, on the other hand, will not automatically make it valid. All disbursements of public funds have to be supported by an allocation under the Congress-approved budget, and must follow the proper administrative and accounting procedures. It is highly doubtful that handing over a paper bag with P500,000 cash in a parking lot to a provincial governor constitutes sufficient compliance.

Laws and regulations concerning the giving of money and other assets to public officials have one basic, common purpose – to ensure accountability and integrity in the public service. It should be crystal clear that handing out bundles of cash at breakfast meetings and in parking lots does nothing to further either of these interests.

The Great Escape

On Monday last week, the first day of October, we were witness to what in the Philippines amounts to a minor miracle – a high ranking government official voluntarily relinquishing office.

In our country, where we have come to expect those in power to cling with all their might to public office even in the face of public outrage, widespread scorn, or even court orders, the resignation of Commission on Elections (COMELEC) Chairperson Benjamin Abalos came as a welcome surprise. As some quarters put it, his resignation set “an example” that should be viewed as a “victory for the public.” Similarly, it “spared” Congress and the public from the “tedious and tiring impeachment process.”

But though Abalos’ resignation may indeed constitute a refreshing draught of delicadeza amid the desert of current public conscience, it may not be as selfless as many of us would want to believe. After all, the good Chairperson, in announcing his resignation, was quick to clarify that he was “not admitting guilt for any wrongdoing” nor was he “giving up on [his] crusade to clear [his] name and reputation.” Going one step further, Abalos and his lawyer even announced that they would file libel charges against his two principal accusers, Joey De Venecia and Romulo Neri, based on the “false testimony” they gave before the Senate.

Clearly therefore, the resignation is the furthest thing from a conscience-salving confession. If anything, it would seem that the principal motivation was to avoid an embarrassing, and perhaps potentially explosive, impeachment proceeding in Congress.

Resignation as a means to avoid removal proceedings or disciplinary sanctions, though not always disallowed, is definitely discouraged under our law. For instance, under the Local Government Code, a local official facing removal through a recall election is barred from resigning. Similarly, the Supreme Court has ruled in several cases that “resignation should not be used either as an escape or as an easy out to evade administrative liability.”

The reason for this is self-evident: there is a high level of public interest in ensuring that public officials are held accountable for any wrongdoing committed while in office. While resignation may seem like a “shortcut” solution to the administrative process, it nonetheless prevents full disclosure of the extent of the wrongdoing, as well as imposition of the full set of legal sanctions.

In the case of Abalos, a full blown impeachment would have led, most likely, to disclosures that would provide a more complete picture of the entire ZTE scandal – including the names and involvement of other public figures. Similarly, a conviction by an impeachment court would be a legal finding of Abalos’ culpability that could lead to additional penalties, such as imprisonment.

As it stands, his resignation leaves too many questions unanswered. Of course, one way to find the answers, and prevent his “escape,” is to insist that, despite the resignation, criminal charges must be aggressively pursued against him.

The Legality of Forgiveness

Almost three weeks ago, the Sandiganbayan convicted former President Joseph “Erap” Estrada of two counts of plunder. In convicting Erap the court concluded that the evidence showed “beyond a reasonable doubt” that he had committed the acts constituting the crime of plunder –accepting “payoffs” from jueteng operators and receiving kickbacks from government purchases of certain shares of stock.

The verdict has since spawned a loud and oftentimes vicious public debate on the validity of the decision. Quite apart from arguments concerning the finding of guilt itself, however, a second discussion has emerged. That is, setting aside the question of Erap’s guilt or innocence, should he in fact be made to suffer the penalty of imprisonment?

The Sandiganbayan judgment sentenced Erap to reclusion perpetua or imprisonment from 20-40 years. A number of voices have been raised in support of granting amnesty or pardon to Erap, to the end that he be exempted from actually serving out this period of imprisonment. Senator Mar Roxas, for instance, filed Senate Resolution 135 urging that Erap be pardoned “at the appropriate time and on humanitarian grounds.” A Social Weather Stations (SWS) survey taken a week before the Sandiganbayan verdict showed that 84% of the public favored a pardon either immediately (48%) or after some time (36%).

In the Philippines, both amnesty and pardon have the effect of exempting a person convicted of or charged with a crime from serving the penalty attached by law to the offense. Amnesty, however, is granted to a class or group of persons, while pardon is given to individuals. Likewise, amnesty can only be granted by the President with the concurrence of a majority in Congress, while pardon is solely the act of the President. Lastly, amnesty is traditionally granted only to offenders of “political” crimes such as rebellion or sedition, while pardon can cover any type of offender

Pardon can be absolute or conditional. An absolute pardon operates to immediately and irrevocably relieve an offender from all the penalties which arise from conviction. A conditional pardon partakes of the nature of a contract, where the offender agrees to perform certain acts (get a steady job, refrain from committing other crimes) in return for being relieved from serving sentence. In our law, conditional pardons require the offender to accept the pardon, and its terms. Absolute pardons, however, immediately take effect even without acceptance.

“Forgiveness” is what, in essence, pardon is. It is an act of grace, or pure generosity, on the part of the President extended to a person who has been “convicted by final judgment.” In other words, it is an act of clemency extended by the Executive to one who has been conclusively adjudged as guilty by the courts.

Thus, any effort to pardon Erap, whether absolutely or conditionally, will have to wait until the full court process, appeals and all, is exhausted.

Willful Blindness

Two controversial inquiries currently being conducted by the Senate – the revived “Hello Garci” hearings starring a newly loquacious T/Sgt. Vidal Doble, and the ZTE/NBN investigation showcasing a finger-pointing (literally) Joey De Venecia – have once again thrown into the legal limelight the issue of executive privilege as against the power of Congress to conduct inquiries “in aid of legislation.” The issue first cropped up two years ago when GMA issued Executive Order No. 464, a directive criticized by many as a virtual “gag order” on administration officials.

EO 464 subsequently became the subject of a Supreme Court decision (Senate of the Philippines v. Ermita) which attempted to delineate the boundary between the powers of Congress and the prerogatives of the Chief Executive. While the decision, when actually read, seems clear enough, its impact has been greatly weakened by conflicting claims and interpretations from the two contending camps – the Senate and the Office of the President.

What does the decision actually prescribe, and how does it bear on current efforts by the Senate to extract testimony?

To begin with, the Court in Ermita clearly underscored that, as a rule, Congressional inquiries in aid of legislation must be given the broadest possible leeway. This is to ensure that Congress is always given the opportunity to equip itself with information necessary for passing legislation. Furthermore, Congress, in its representative capacity, acts as an instrument by which the general public can assert its right to information on matters of public concern.

That said, the Court likewise stated that as an exception to this rule, the claim of “executive privilege” can be raised. Executive privilege allows the President to withhold information from the public, the courts, and Congress where such non-disclosure “is necessary to the discharge of highly important executive responsibilities.” This covers information of a sensitive or highly confidential nature, such as military or diplomatic secrets, whose revelation could harm the State.

However, the Court emphasized that executive privilege is an exception that must be strictly construed. It can only be validly asserted directly by the President and only upon an explanation as to why the disclosure of the specific information would cause damage to the public interest. Therefore, unsupported claims of “executive privilege” cannot be used to justify outright refusal to appear or participate in a Congressional inquiry.

In this light, it is strange why administration officials still insist on avoiding Senate inquiries upon the bare claim that “it would violate EO 464.” First of all, no official other than the President, or the Executive Secretary acting under her explicit direction, can make the assertion. Secondly, the claim must be made with respect to specific information. Thirdly, an explanation on the danger of disclosure must accompany the claim.

A careful reading of Ermita makes it clear that these persistent refusals are anchored more on the intention to thwart, rather than uphold, public interest. But then, of course, there are none so blind as those who will not see.

The Power of Trust

The Sandiganbayan decision convicting deposed President Joseph “Erap” Estrada on two counts of plunder has been met with a storm of public reaction since it was announced last Wednesday. Oddly enough, despite the being a matter ostensibly based on technical, legal considerations (i.e. whether the evidence presented was sufficient to convict Erap “beyond reasonable doubt”), reactions to the decision, be it praise or condemnation, tended to rely more on extralegal concerns such as “public interest” or “political pressure.”

To a large extent, public reaction has focused more on the implications, the decision-making process, and the motives of the court and the government, rather than the technical legal merits of the decision itself.

This fact gives us an insight on the relationship between courts and the public at large. Courts, in carrying out their task of interpreting the law and applying it to resolve specific cases and disputes, go through the rather technical process of evaluating evidence, weighing precedent, and rendering a judgment anchored on its appreciation of formal, established legal rules. Most members of the public will be unable to fully understand this arcane process, either because of lack of familiarity with the rules, or more simply, because they did not have the opportunity the court had to observe witnesses, read the documents, and sift firsthand through the evidence.

Nonetheless, despite this lack of understanding, we expect court judgments, as a rule, to remain unquestioned and, in fact, to be wholeheartedly accepted by the general public. For this we rely on one of the most important features of our judicial system – firm public trust in the courts.

Trust leads the public at large to accept court judgments even if they are not personally and specifically aware of their legal soundness. In other words, institutional trust in the courts dispenses with the need to convince each individual citizen of the merit of a decision by explaining at length how it was arrived at. In fact, the overwhelming majority has probably never even read an actual decision, and yet the validity of court judgments is, on the whole, accepted.

Given this, it becomes apparent just how crucial and dispensable trust in the courts is to the sustainability of our justice system. In recognition of this, the Code of Judicial Conduct specifically mandates that “a judge should avoid impropriety and the appearance of impropriety at all times,” so as to avoid the slightest doubt to cloud public trust in the courts.

The reaction to the Erap verdict, in particular the howls of outrage over alleged “political considerations” in crafting the decision, tend to indicate that, at least in this case, public trust in the Sandiganbayan is not as firm as it could be. And obviously, this does not speak well for the health of our judicial system.

The Letter That Killeth

My column for the week, as scheduled.

“Prove it.”

It seems that these days, these two words are the most common rejoinder offered by those accused of wrongdoing, whether of the criminal, administrative, or moral kind. Whether coming from the head of a constitutional body being accused of accepting bribes in exchange for intervention in a government contract, or from the spokespersons of a fraternity being held to account for a hazing fatality, or from military officials suspected of directing the abduction and murder of hundreds of citizens, the response is startlingly consistent – prove it.

While the reply may be consistent with the formal framework of our legal system – a system that is anchored on such tenets as “innocent until proven guilty” and which always places the burden of proof on the accuser rather than the accused – it overlooks the crucial point that public discussions on culpability are not solely governed by strict legal rules. Accountability to the public, particularly in the case of government officials, is not the same as the criminal or administrative accountability that has to be proven in court through a specified set of formalistic procedures.

In other words, while a person who faces public accusations of wrongdoing, be it corruption or murder, may have the legal right to say “prove it” before she, he, or it is legally penalized, this does not grant absolution from the social duty to respond to public concerns.

Unfortunately, in our society, enamored as it is with black letter law and all its myriad technicalities – “legal gobbledygook” as a frustrated Senator Rodolfo Biazon once referred to them – the legal has come to automatically equated with what is proper or perhaps even moral.

One oft cited maxim in Philippine jurisprudence (which, surprisingly enough is paraphrased from Saint Paul’s letter to the Corinthians) is that laws should be interpreted not according to the letter that kills, but the spirit that gives life. Simply put, intention or purpose should prevail over a literal reading of the rules.

In these times when so many of us have lost faith in our leaders and institutions, we would do well to heed this reminder. That leaders and institutions are accountable not only for what can be formally proven in court, but to the bar of public opinion. That they should adhere not only to the literal wording of the law, but to the dictates of public trust and public interest which give the law its real and vital spirit.