‘Mabait Naman Siya’: The Filipino Habit of Excusing the Powerful

One Sunday afternoon, I was at a family gathering when the conversation turned to politics. My uncle, finishing off a bottle of beer, pointed at the TV where a familiar face—grinning ear to ear—was giving away motorcycles and bundles of cash to a screaming studio audience. "Balak daw tumakbo," he said, shaking his head with a half-smile.

Some scoffed, some laughed, but the mood was light. There was no outrage, no exasperation—just a familiar acceptance, followed by the same line we’d heard before: "Mabait naman siya."

And just like that, a man whose biggest qualification is making people cry on live television, handing out jackets, and cracking jokes is now being considered for the Senate. Because he helped. Because he was kind. Because he was one of us.

But if we take a step back, we see that this isn’t about kindness. It’s about power—who holds it, how they keep it, and why it’s always the same people in charge.

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Why We Struggle To Question Power

The truth is, it has never been enough to be competent in this country. To be a leader here, one must be strong. One must know how to command, charm, and control. The people in power aren’t just politicians—they’re bosses, patrons, fathers of the nation. They do not serve, they rule.

We have candidates singing and dancing during elections, doling out 500-peso bills, or giving away ayuda. The system ensures that we recognize authority only when it is performed.

Leadership in Filipino politics isn’t about policy—it’s about presence. It’s about the ama ng bayan, the matapang na kuya, the amo whose generosity is reason enough to grant him power. They do not need credentials because their courage is their qualification. They do not need platforms because their compassion is proof enough.

And this is why it’s hard to ask hard questions. Not because we are ignorant but because we were never meant to ask.

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A System Built to Keep People in Their Place

The feudal structure of our politics was designed long before we were born. The idea that leadership is given to us by those in power—rather than earned through service—is not an accident.

Why else do we see the same dynasties holding office for generations? Why else are the rich and famous the ones who get to "serve" the poor instead of the poor themselves? Why else do we cheer when the powerful toss cash into the crowd instead of demanding policies that ensure we don’t have to beg for it?

The answer is simple: because this system was built on the idea that we, the people, should always be grateful—never entitled, never demanding, never expecting more than what the feudal lord decides to give.

And so, we learn to accept crumbs because crumbs are better than nothing. We accept 'mabait naman siya' as a reason to vote because what else have we been given? We take what we can get because politics has always been dirty.

But this isn’t our fault. It has never been our fault.

The Politics of Gratitude

In a country where suffering is normal, kindness becomes currency. We don’t question why they have so much to give. We only see that they are giving it, and in a world where everything costs too much, a free bag of groceries feels like a lifeline.

This is how the powerful win. They do not have to lead; they only have to give.

They smile. They throw money into crowds. They lift a child onto their shoulders. They sing, they dance, they act like our uncles and fathers and friends.

And because they are visible, because they are present, because they are accessible in ways that institutions never are, they become the only power we recognize.

Meanwhile, the ones who actually fight for something better? They are dismissed as masyadong seryoso, masyadong mareklamo, masyadong matalino, masyadong malayo sa masa.

This is how the cycle continues. The system doesn’t just place the powerful on top—it makes sure no one else can reach their level.

And when they fail? "Ganun naman talaga ang pulitika." "Wala namang ibang maayos diyan." "At least hindi elitista." We say these things as if they are conclusions.

They are not. They are acts of surrender.

Breaking the Cycle

So what do we do? We remember that charity is not justice. That a strong presence is not strong leadership. That a kind heart does not make a competent lawmaker.

Most of all, we remind ourselves that we are not just spectators in this system. We are not just lucky to receive what little is thrown our way.

We are meant for more than 'mabait naman siya'. We deserve leaders who serve, not just bosses who give.

So when the billboards go up, when the jingles start playing, when another familiar face asks for our trust, let’s ask: What has he done? What has he fought for? What will he do—when there are no more cameras, no more giveaways, no more applause?

Because if all they have to offer is kindness, then maybe it’s time we stop letting that be enough.