The perennial fight against corruption, a deep-seated ailment in the Philippine political body, has reached a new and dramatic inflection point. A scathing critique from a respected political analyst has effectively labeled a former head of the nation’s chief anti-graft body as a ghost, while simultaneously, the current administration is issuing a strong warning to those planning to take their legitimate outrage to the streets. These two events—one a damning retrospective on judicial failure, the other a forward-looking caution on the limits of public dissent—are converging to define the current political atmosphere, raising the stakes for transparency, accountability, and the right to peaceful assembly.

The central figure in the judicial condemnation is former Ombudsman Samuel Martires, whose seven-year tenure has been eviscerated by political analyst Ronald Yamas, a former cabinet member of the Aquino administration. Yamas, known for his incisive commentary, did not mince words, famously calling Martires a “non-ombudsman” or, more hauntingly, a “ghost ombudsman.” This is not a label of mere incompetence, but a profound accusation of an alleged systemic failure, a period where the office mandated to be the people’s champion against graft supposedly vanished into the ether, leaving the corrupt unchastised and free to operate.

To understand the weight of Yamas’s critique, one must first grasp the critical role of the Ombudsman in the Philippines. This office is the vanguard, the constitutional entity tasked with investigating and prosecuting government officials, including the President, in cases of graft and corruption. It is the final bastion of accountability for public servants who forget their solemn oath. When this bastion allegedly fails, the very foundation of public trust trembles. Yamas suggests that Martires did more than simply fail; he allegedly neutralized the office, turning a feared anti-graft body into an unwitting protector of the very individuals it was meant to pursue.

The most prominent evidence cited for this ‘ghost’ status is the highly controversial 2021 memorandum circular issued by Martires, which severely restricted public access to the Statements of Assets, Liabilities, and Net Worth, or SALNs, of public officials and employees. The SALN is the financial mirror of a public servant’s life, a crucial transparency document that allows citizens and watchdog groups to spot unexplained wealth and potential graft. By making it nearly impossible to access these records, Martires effectively pulled down the blinds on the financial dealings of the nation’s elite. This move was universally condemned by transparency advocates, journalists, and civic society, who argued that public officials, whose salaries are paid by the taxpayers, forfeit their expectation of absolute privacy. The attempt to penalize those who dared to comment on SALNs was seen as an even more egregious overreach, a blatant effort to silence public scrutiny and inquiry—the very essence of a functioning democracy. The notion that one could hold a powerful position for years, yet allegedly block the primary mechanism of accountability, is what gives the “ghost ombudsman” label its chilling resonance. Martires, by all accounts, was physically present, yet his alleged actions were those of an official who had spiritually, functionally, and morally abandoned his post.

Further fueling the fire of this condemnation are allegations that Martires secretly signed orders and decisions that reversed rulings made by previous ombudsmen. This practice of overturning past decisions, sometimes only coming to light years later, suggests a deliberate and quiet effort to clear the names of officials previously found to have committed ethical or criminal violations. The case of former senator Joel Villanueva is cited as an example—a decision allegedly reversed in secret, a ‘ghost signature’ on a ‘ghost decision’ that surfaced only after six years, allegedly granting a powerful individual an effective reprieve from justice. This quiet, bureaucratic subversion, Yamas argues, allowed the deeply entrenched corrupt elements of the government to breathe a collective sigh of relief, knowing their chief investigator was allegedly looking the other way, or worse, actively working to shield them.

The impact of this alleged systemic vacuum of accountability is not merely theoretical; it is a direct driver of the public unrest now bubbling up across the archipelago. The political analyst’s critique highlights a profound sense of institutional betrayal that leads directly to the streets. The message is clear: if the official channels of justice and accountability—the Ombudsman’s office—cannot or will not hold the corrupt accountable, then the people must find a different mechanism for demanding change. This is the context for the looming November 30 rally.

Organizers of the successful September 21 Luneta gathering, known as the “trillion peso March Organizers,” have announced a subsequent event that they promise will be “bigger, wider, and fiercer.” Scheduled for November 30, Bonifacio Day, the rally is a massive public cry against the endemic corruption that continues to plague the nation. The public’s outrage, as President Bongbong Marcos himself acknowledges, is not manufactured; it is a legitimate, visceral response to persistent injustice.

President Marcos has stepped into this volatile landscape, demonstrating a careful balancing act between respecting the constitutional right to assembly and maintaining peace and order. He publicly stated that he understands the root cause of the public’s anger—the frustrating reports of officials purchasing multi-million-peso airplanes, helicopters, and mansions while ordinary citizens struggle daily against crushing poverty and rising prices. This acknowledgement is a necessary step in validating the genuine frustration of the Filipino people. However, the President’s statement pivots quickly from empathy to a stern, non-negotiable warning.

PBBM’s concern is focused entirely on the infiltration of these peaceful assemblies by “agitators” whose sole intention, he argues, is to incite violence, cause destruction, and harm people, including the police officers assigned to maintain security. The memory of the September 21 Mendiola incident, where a peaceful protest allegedly devolved into chaos with acts of violence, burning, and even attempted hotel entry, remains fresh and serves as the President’s primary point of caution. He alludes to the disturbing image of Molotov cocktails and lighters, questioning the intent of anyone who brings such instruments to a peaceful rally. The specific mention of a “boy lighter” who has yet to face arrest underscores the government’s focus on those who cross the line from protest to criminal activity.

The President’s warning is delivered with an authoritative edge that suggests detailed intelligence. “We have a good idea who they are,” he stated, a phrase that suggests surveillance and monitoring of individuals or groups with a known history of disrupting public order. This statement serves as a potent deterrent, implying that the administration is prepared to act decisively. He makes it unequivocally clear that these agitators will not be allowed to repeat their disruptive actions and will face severe consequences. The right to peaceful protest, he assures, will be upheld, but the freedom to incite violence or cause harm is strictly revoked.

This presidential line in the sand is buttressed by the actions of local government. Manila Mayor Yorme Isko Moreno has reportedly banned rallies in the historical flashpoint of Mendiola, a site frequently associated with confrontational protests, suggesting alternative venues like Liwasang Bonifacio, Luneta, or EDSA. This geographic restriction is another layer of precaution, designed to steer the large public gathering away from areas prone to trouble and to provide the government with easier control over security. The message to the organizers and participants is one of conditional support: protest strongly, voice your dissent loudly, but do so peacefully, or face the severe repercussions that follow a breach of public order. Vandalism, the President noted, does not just disrupt, it is a crime that costs taxpayers millions in repairs—a direct economic consequence of the agitators’ actions.

The convergence of the Martires critique and the PBBM warning creates a dramatic national test. The critique of the former Ombudsman provides the profound moral and institutional justification for the people’s anger; the President’s warning defines the political and legal boundaries of how that anger can be expressed. When the mechanisms of internal accountability are perceived to have failed, the pressure on external, public expressions of accountability—the street protests—becomes immense. The November 30 rally is therefore not just a protest against corruption; it is a referendum on the health of Philippine democratic institutions.

It is a moment of reckoning for the new Ombudsman, Boying Remulla, who inherits the office shrouded in the shadow of his predecessor’s alleged inaction. The public sentiment expressed in the upcoming rally will serve as a direct, high-pressure mandate for his term. The hope among reformers is that Remulla can restore the integrity and vigor of the office, finally bringing corrupt officials to account, particularly those linked to high-profile scandals such as the flood control anomalies. If the office of the Ombudsman is reactivated as a genuine anti-graft machine, the necessity and frequency of mass street protests may eventually decrease. But for now, the streets remain the most powerful forum for the expression of collective frustration.

The final appeal to the public ahead of November 30 remains a sober one: the protest must be peaceful. The history of the Philippines is marked by peaceful revolutions—People Power being the ultimate example—that changed the course of the nation without widespread violence. Participants are advised to join only those groups committed to non-violence, to be aware of the groups they associate with, and to avoid those who might offer payment for participation in disruptive acts. The risk is not just political, but personal: those caught engaging in violence or vandalism risk being abandoned by their recruiters and facing the full force of the law.

As November 30 approaches, the Philippines stands at a critical juncture. The memory of the ‘ghost ombudsman’ serves as a stark reminder of the cost of institutional failure. The presidential warning serves as a firm restatement of the rule of law. The success of the “bigger, wider, and fiercer” march will not be measured solely by its size, but by its ability to maintain its moral high ground, proving that legitimate dissent can be both powerful and peaceful, and that the fight for a truly accountable government remains a core value of the Filipino people. The nation watches and waits, hoping this pivotal moment leads not to destructive confrontation, but to genuine, lasting change in the tireless war against graft.