HAVE you ever felt indebted for something that was already yours? That quiet, unsettling pressure to say "thank you" — not out of genuine gratitude, but out of obligation. As if the debt were real, even when you know, somewhere underneath it all, that it never was.

In the Philippines, public service is something meant to embody humility, accountability, and a genuine commitment to the common good. Walk through any city or municipality in this country, and you will find it — that never-changing tarpaulin. Larger than necessary, brighter than appropriate, and almost always featuring the same thing: a smiling official, a bold-printed name, and a project that your taxes paid for. From ambulances wrapped in political branding to waiting sheds signed like artwork, the message is consistent. Governance, somewhere along the way, stopped being about the service and started being about who gets credit for it.

Consider this, even ambulances—vehicles meant to save lives in the most critical moments—are not spared from political branding. A man clutching his chest in the back of that vehicle is not thinking about who funded it. But someone, at some point, decided that the side of that ambulance was valuable advertising space. 

The same goes for the scholar who receives a certificate of financial assistance embellished with a politician's photo, or the family who opens a relief good or ayuda during a typhoon or holiday and finds a smiling face staring back at them from the plastic container. These are not gestures of public service. They are mere gestures of public relations — and they are being funded with our money.

This phenomenon reflects more than mere vanity—it suggests a deeper culture of political narcissism. Elected officials, entrusted with public funds, often act as though these resources are personal contributions rather than obligations tied to their office. Roads, waiting sheds, scholarships, and even relief goods are labeled not as services funded by taxpayers but as “gifts” from politicians. The implicit message is clear: utang na loob is expected. 

As a nation deeply ingrained with the notion of pakikipagkapwa, Filipinos are naturally inclined to value gratitude, reciprocity, and shared humanity. These cultural virtues, rooted in empathy and mutual respect, have long strengthened our communities and relationships. Yet, in the realm of politics, these same values are often exploited—subtly reshaped into tools that pressure citizens into feeling indebted for services that are, by right, already theirs. What should be genuine appreciation becomes an expectation, and what should be a public duty is restructured as personal generosity. To put it plainly — this is, and has always been, the bare minimum.

So it leads me to a question: are our politicians narcissists? And did we, as a nation, let their ego go unchecked?

Maybe. But narcissism alone feels too simple an answer. A narcissist wants to be seen, be the center of attention — but that's where it ends. What we're watching is something more deliberate than that. This is ego with a plan. The goal was never just the tarpaulin. The goal was always the next election. And the uncomfortable truth is that we have made it easy for them. Every unquestioned relief good, every vote cast for the name that looked familiar on a banner — we are not just tolerating the system. We are keeping it alive. It persists not because politicians are uniquely shameless, but because it keeps working.

This is not a blame game directed at the Filipino people. When politicians rarely appear in debates, and platforms are written to be forgotten, the face on the tarpaulin becomes the only information voters are consistently given. Choosing the familiar name is, in many ways, a rational response to a system designed to offer nothing else. But rational or not, the result is the same. Public money funds private ambition, and governance quietly becomes its stage.

As vested in Article XI, Section 1 of the 1987 Constitution of the Philippines, “Public Office is a public trust. Public officers and employees must at all times be accountable to the people, serve them with utmost responsibility, integrity, loyalty, and efficiency, act with patriotism and justice, and lead modest lives.” But is this truly seen — or even felt — in the way governance is practiced today? Perhaps not. Because a public servant who plasters their name on every project they are legally obligated to deliver has not internalized trust, they found a way to monetize it.

But this is not just an eyesore. The consequences run deeper than that. When a voter has seen one official's name on every road, every scholarship, and every medical mission in their barangay for three years straight, that name becomes familiar. Familiarity, in Philippine elections, is currency. Studies on voting behavior consistently show that name recall plays a significant role in how Filipinos choose their leaders — particularly in local races. Politicians know this. The tarpaulin is not vanity. It is an investment, a calculated and deliberate one, made with money that was never theirs to spend on themselves. And so the cycle continues: public funds are used to build visibility, visibility converts to votes, and votes return the official to office, which results in the cycle beginning again. Because the project was never really about the road, nor the relief goods they give to their constituents. It’s all about them.

We have normalized all of this so thoroughly that outrage has given way to exhaustion. The tarpaulin is no longer shocking — it is expected every time, and that is exactly where the problem starts. The moment we stop questioning, it is the moment we silently agree to it. Accountability does not begin at the ballot box. It begins the moment we refuse to mistake obligation for generosity.

So the next time you feel that quiet pressure to be grateful, stop. Ask yourself what exactly you are thanking them for. Because if the answer is a road that was always supposed to exist, a scholar who was always supposed to be funded, a relief good or ayuda that was always supposed to arrive, then the debt was never yours to carry.