Opinion: Panalo Mentality and Winning for Ego While the Country Pays

"Talunan ang kandidato mo," someone commented on a post, followed by three tear-streaked laughing emojis.

The losing candidate has no record of corruption and has shown competence over many years. The politician the netizen supports, on the other hand, faces corruption allegations and multiple complaints.

One has made transparency a record, and is the only one in the family in politics. The other has made opacity a pattern, with multiple family members in elective public office.

"Di mananalo 'yan," they repeated, punctuating it with laughing emojis. He may be right about the outcome. But choosing a more popular politician for the sake of numbers—not competence or integrity—betrays his own claim that he loves his country, a claim he repeatedly declares on social media.

What passes for patriotism often seems to be pride in disguise. Loving one's country means choosing competence and integrity over the comfort of numbers.

This is the Panalo Mentality—where winning matters more than truth, and allegiance matters more than judgment and fairness.

When a public perception shaped by disinformation is challenged with evidence, the response is often: "You're stuck in your echo chamber"—a phrase used to dismiss, rather than engage with, the truth. Here, ego overrides both truth and love of country.

Sometimes, the rebuttal is not an argument but a dismissal: “Whose truth?”—as if truth were something that changes to suit personal preference. At times, those who fact-check or advocate for good governance are branded as “holier than thou”—a label designed to discredit the messenger and dodge the message.

Disinformation seems to have fueled this mentality. Some netizens publicly questioned why a lawmaker—once detained over an accusation, but whose case had been dismissed months earlier—was seen at a public rally, as if the legal resolution did not exist. They accuse the media of bias, yet appear not to have read the reports they reject.

Leaders don't mislead their people with disinformation; they keep them informed and raise their awareness.

Some people remain certain of that lawmaker's guilt despite the court's dismissal of the cases. Where does this certainty come from? Not from evidence. The politicians they support have offered none, despite having years and the means to present it.

The question arises: are they unaware of the court decision, or do they deliberately refuse to accept it?

And when the media reports corruption involving the politicians they support, they dismiss it as "bayaran" or ask, "Wala na bang ibang maibalita?"—as if the truth were the problem, not the corruption. Yet they embrace the same reports when they implicate their rivals. They don't object when their rivals are under scrutiny.

When a competent and honest candidate runs against their preferred leader, they dismiss him as merely a tool of those behind him.

They call you "talunan" when your candidate loses. But when politics becomes about winning at all costs, the real loser is the public.

You are not naming names when you expose fake news. Yet some people still react defensively. Is it an unconscious admission of having been influenced by disinformation, or a sincere belief that it is true—and that you are the one spreading falsehood?

Either way, the reaction reveals the influence of disinformation.

Some people treat governance as if it were a basketball game. They justify dirty play as long as their side wins. It is not governance—it is pride.

They reject competence and integrity, and celebrate what amounts to greed for power and wealth, because they have invested years of loyalty in the leaders they support. And to discredit an honest leader, they focus on trivial flaws—blowing them out of proportion even when they have nothing to do with public service or governance.

I admire a friend who openly supported a leader, both on social media and offline. But when that leader revealed his true character and motives, my friend publicly withdrew his support. Yet many maintained theirs, perhaps to save face after years of openly supporting the leader. To let go is to admit that they were wrong, and to wound that carefully guarded pride.

Some did not publicly withdraw their support, but the shift is clear in how they now engage with news and issues. They can distinguish between truth and falsehood, choosing country over ego.

This change is partly driven by ordinary Filipinos who challenge disinformation in everyday moments—while waiting for a bus, stuck in a grocery queue, or standing at the school gate to fetch their children.

The problem is not that people want to win. It's that they are willing to abandon truth, integrity, and country just to feel that they belong.

A democracy does not fail all at once. It erodes—one defensive comment at a time, one dismissed report at a time, one laughing emoji at a time. And when winning becomes the only thing that matters, governance becomes a game where only the powerful set the rules.

The country pays for it. And it will keep paying, until belonging to the truth matters more than belonging to a side.

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