Some thoughts before you vote

There’s a kind of love that never lets up. The kind that wakes up early to prepare home-cooked lunches, stays up with a feverish child, whispers prayers before every performance, exam, and milestone. It’s a love shaped by laughter, tears, and the courage to let go. It’s a mother’s love.

In the Philippines, that love is tested not only by the demands of motherhood but by prevalent corruption in our systems of government. Corruption isn’t just an abstract, political behavior — it reaches deep into a mother’s heart and attacks what that heart loves.

Mothers naturally want what’s best for their children. We work, we sacrifice, we fight the monsters under their beds. But there’s a bigger monster — one that haunts generations. It comes in the form of elected officials who once swore to serve, yet act like thieves in the night, stealing our children’s future.

Living in a developing country like the Philippines, we know all too well the nature of our politics, often marked by greed, power, and excess. Because of corrupt politicians, the systems meant to protect our children are breaking down. 

I am a mother of three, living a decent middle-class life — neither wealthy nor poor. But I’ve seen how corruption affects us all, just in different ways. It’s the mothers in barangays begging for paracetamol for their sick child. The mothers with cancer who can’t afford treatment. The mothers stuck in traffic for hours because public transport fails them. The mothers who bear the agony when their children ask for food but they have nothing to give.

It is quiet suffering — violence we cannot name, oppression we’ve learned to endure. I’ve seen how broken systems rob mothers of the chance to dream freely for their children. Corruption breaks families apart — slowly, cruelly — until absence becomes a way of life.

A motherless generation

Years ago, I worked in a multinational food company handling the OFW market. I interviewed migrant workers and their families. There, I witnessed the cost of migration — a motherless generation.

While there’s no precise count of OFW mothers, the Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) reported that 57.8% of OFWs in 2022 were women, mostly aged 30 to 39 — prime years for motherhood. The Scalabrini Migration Center estimates that 9 million Filipino children, 27% of our youth, are left behind by migrant parents.

Why do they leave? Not out of ambition, but desperation. Corruption and poverty leave them with no choice. Many leave their newborns just weeks after birth, driven by the need to feed their families, pay for schooling, or build a modest home.

I met toddlers who could barely remember their mothers, teenagers carrying silent resentment, and husbands struggling to fill the emotional void. Too many mothers miss birthdays, graduations, even funerals, just to give their families a shot at a better life. The Filipino diaspora is a painful legacy of our nation’s corruption and misplaced priorities.

The lingering effects of corruption

Corruption doesn’t just steal from public coffers, it pulls mothers away from their homes, traps fathers in low-paying jobs, and hurts the youngest and most vulnerable. It takes food off tables, medicine from hospitals, books from classrooms. It turns citizens into criminals and infrastructure into hazards. And, yes, corruption kills — like it did to the four-year-old girl who died at NAIA due to faulty bollards from an P8-million contract. (READ: More than a moment: The life and love of Malia)

The scandals are countless: Napoles’ pork barrel scam, the PhilHealth fraud, Pharmally’s overpriced supplies, confidential funds, even ghost employees and overpriced laptops in barangay projects. Yet those behind them keep getting elected.

When will we see that every stolen peso is stolen from a child’s future?

Corruption slams doors shut. No matter how hard a parent works, or how determined a student is, the road stays steep. I think of Lisa, a massage therapist and mother of eight. We spoke — mother to mother — while I was getting a massage after a long day of work.

Lisa works 12-hour days and still takes on extra jobs during her days off. She gets by on minimum wage and tips, sending whatever she can to her children in the province, where her eldest daughter cares for them. Her youngest is just six years old, and she only gets to see them once a year. What Lisa sends is never enough. Unplanned expenses — school projects, medicine, a pair of broken shoes — quickly add up. All her children are honor students, and Lisa is very proud. But despite her hard work, the future still looks uncertain for them. Lisa isn’t alone. She’s one of many mothers who work harder than most, but love alone isn’t enough, not in a country this broken.

As a mother, I can’t help but ache when I see children in first-world countries walking on clean and safe sidewalks to free, high-quality public schools, supported by responsive governments. It shows what’s possible. And it reminds me how little ours are getting — not from lack of effort, but from the greed of those in power.

No wonder that in the PSA’s 2024 survey, 18.96 million junior and senior high school graduates were found functionally illiterate. They can read, but struggle to understand. It’s a tragic reflection of how deeply corruption has failed our youth.

The cycle continues

Corruption thrives on poverty — because poverty can be weaponized. Politicians know that desperate people are easier to sway. Hunger makes even hollow promises feel like hope. In the hands of the corrupt, poverty becomes strategy.

And after elections? The Filipino spirit endures. The farmer who can’t feed his own children still tills the soil. The fisherman still casts his net. The overworked nurse still cares for the sick. The teacher still teaches, often using her own money to buy supplies. The jobless still volunteer. And we, the mothers, still carry the double load, at home and outside, just to keep our families going.

But what about those elected officials? Will they get to work and serve as they promised?

A call for accountability

If you’re reading this before the election, I beg you, vote wisely. Let’s stop settling for charm and name recall. Let’s stop excusing those charged with plunder or shielding dynasties who serve only their own. Let’s stop saying “Ok na ‘to” when their performance is mediocre or they stay silent amid injustice. Vote for leaders who will treat your children like their own — who will protect their future, not exploit it.

If you’re reading this after the elections, stay vigilant. The campaign is over, but the real work begins. Ask questions. Demand answers. Let’s hold them accountable. We mothers know what it’s like to confront bullies on playgrounds. The biggest bullies though may be wearing barongs and holding office. They are the ones we must face and fight.

If we stay blind, corruption will continue to kill — one child, one family, one generation at a time.

But it doesn’t have to. When mothers open their eyes, when mothers speak, the nation must listen. And when mothers rise, nations change.

Such is the power of a mother’s love. – Rappler.com

Sarah Bautista-Abano is a wife and mother of three daughters. She is a volunteer and advocate for the environment and human rights. After leaving a corporate career to focus on full-time motherhood, she eventually started her own small business.