№ 789. Technical experts: Are they truly heard?

Technical experts: Are they truly heard?

By: Raymund Narag 

 

Brainly

 

 

We have technical experts in government. Engineers, planners, scientists, analysts. They are the best minds in their fields. They are graduates of our best schools. They have master’s degrees, some even PhDs. They study abroad, attend international trainings, speak fluent “development language.” They prepare PowerPoints with the polish of international consultants. They talk about “systems improvement,” “data-driven solutions,” and “evidence-based planning.” They dream of a better, more efficient Philippines.

 

But in the end, they are nothing.

 

They are decorations in the bureaucratic hallways, token ornaments to make government look competent. They are the fig leaves that cover the naked greed of the powerful. They are there to make the bosses appear smart, modern, and progressive—but never to decide, never to lead.

 

Because in the Philippines, the real decisions are not made by those who know. They are made by those who own. The appointed, the elected, the padrinos, the godfathers of the system.

 

I have seen this too many times. The experts make the plan. They are told to produce a concept note, “quickly and efficiently.” The deadline, as always, is “yesterday.” So they stay up late. They work weekends. They gather data. They read the latest research. They study best practices. They put their heart and soul into crafting something good, something truly beneficial for the people.

 

Then they submit the draft. The boss reads it—well, glances at it—and nods. Then the boss presents it to his boss. The top boss—the one who owes his position to political debt, not technical competence—looks at the plan, squints, and says, “Pwede, pero palitan natin ito.”

 

Why? Because he has other considerations. The experts think of efficiency, sustainability, and integrity.  The politicians think of paano ako kikita rito?

 

That is how the story always goes. The plan gets watered down, diluted, distorted, until it becomes unrecognizable. What began as a proposal to save lives ends up as a project to save face—and line pockets. The experts sit there, helpless. They cannot protest. They cannot assert their expertise. They are reminded of their place.

 

Because in our bureaucracy, technical experts are not the spine of the institution—they are its kneecaps. They are meant to bend.

 

And so, they do. Out of fear. Out of survival. They become “team players.” They go with the flow, even when the flow is heading straight to corruption. They watch as their ideas are mangled by greed. They watch as their warnings are ignored. They watch as disaster unfolds—floods that could have been prevented, bridges that could have lasted, policies that could have worked.

 

And when tragedy strikes—when a typhoon hits, when a bridge collapses, when a flood drowns a city—the same politicians blame them. The same experts who were silenced are suddenly asked, “Why didn’t you do something?”

 

It is the same sad pattern I wrote about before. We saw it in the corruption of flood control projects. The engineers and planners knew the problem. They saw the weak designs, the overpriced contracts, the recycled materials. But what could they do? Their reports were rewritten. Their signatures were forced. Their silence was bought.

 

This is the unholy marriage of greed and knowledge—the expert turned accomplice.

At first, they resisted. But later, they learned the system. They used their technical skills not to expose corruption, but to hide it. They learned how to make ghost projects look legitimate, how to pad budgets without raising suspicion, how to write “justifications” that would pass the scrutiny of auditors.

Soon, they too became rich. Not because they were excellent, but because they learned to survive by joining the rot.

 

That is how our district engineers became millionaires. That is how consultants built mansions. That is how bright minds became shadows of the very thing they once swore to reform.

 

And the agencies? They became theaters of absurdity. Technical experts became palamuti—decorations to impress visiting dignitaries. They are the “resource persons” who present at international conferences while their bosses strike deals under the table. They are the “innovators” whose outputs are shelved, the “policy specialists” whose memos gather dust.

 

They are perfume in a garbage dump, asked to mask the stench of corruption.

In the end, it does not matter how brilliant you are, how many studies you’ve published, or how many best practices you can cite. In this system, what matters is whose hand you kiss.

And so, the same cycle continues. The experts draft proposals that no one reads. The politicians make speeches about reforms that never come. The people suffer from floods, crumbling roads, and broken systems that could have been fixed decades ago.

 

We are a country allergic to competence. We distrust expertise. We ridicule intellect. We worship the loud, the connected, the “malakas.”

 

The tragedy is not that we lack talent. The tragedy is that our talent has been silenced, bought, or buried under the weight of political greed.

 

Look at the great nations today—they are led by technocrats. Engineers, scientists, policy thinkers. People who know what they are doing. In the Philippines, we still think leadership is a family business. We think public office is an inheritance, not a duty.

 

And so, our experts remain on the sidelines—watching, whispering, waiting for the day when integrity will matter more than connections.

 

Until then, the real experts will remain invisible, drowned in the noise of sycophants and slogans. Their brilliance will continue to decorate PowerPoint slides that never see the light of implementation. Their reports will continue to be signed by those who cannot even spell “feasibility.”

 

And the next time a bridge collapses or a city floods, the experts will again be blamed, even if their warnings were ignored.

 

 

Manila Standard

The cycle of stupidity will continue, because in this country, being right is not as important as being loyal.

Technical experts in the Philippines? They fare exactly as you expect: ignored if honest, rewarded if corrupt.

 

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest irony of all—when knowledge itself becomes powerless in the face of ignorance with power.

 

Bento Box: 

This is the prompt for the editorial cartoon from the Manila Standard.

"Prompt:
A horizontal editorial cartoon in pen-and-ink with bold outlines and cross-hatching. At the center, a sinking lifeboat labeled “Flood Relief” struggles in rising floodwaters. The boat is overloaded with heavy blocks labeled “New Budgets”, “Projects”, and “Promised Funding.” An anchor marked “Corruption” drags it deeper. Around the lifeboat, Filipino families cling to rooftops, waving desperately for help. Onshore, officials in barong Tagalog ignore them, busy stacking blueprints labeled “Ghost Projects” and counting money. The tone is dark satire, showing futility and mismanagement in disaster response."