If you’ve ever lined up in a government office, you know what pagod feels like. You wait for hours, only to be told you’re in the wrong line. You walk from one window to another, hoping someone will finally help you.
Now imagine doing that while your mother is sick.
That was me, many years ago.
A Boy in the Line
I was in third year high school when my mother got sick. We didn’t have much. My father worked hard, but the money wasn’t enough. So I tried to help — I sold things after class, found small ways to earn. Still, the medicine costs kept rising.
A neighbor told us, “Baka puwede kay mayor. Baka matulungan kayo.”
So we went. It was a hot afternoon in Antipolo. The line outside the mayor’s office was long — mothers, grandmothers, people holding folders full of medical bills. We waited for three hours before we finally got inside.
When it was our turn, the mayor smiled and asked a lot of questions — about my mother, about school, about how we were coping. He was kind. But after all that, he said,
“O sige, iyan muna. Sabihin mo sa sekretarya ko.”
We got ₱200.
Our jeepney fare going there and back cost ₱60. So we went home with ₱140 — barely enough for a day’s worth of medicine.
That’s how hard it was. The system wasn’t bad because people were bad. It was bad because it was slow, confusing, and built for paperwork, not people.
Help That’s Hard to Reach
In those days, hospitals had something called a Public Assistance Desk. It sounded good — a place where people could ask for help. But most Filipinos didn’t even know it existed.
If you were poor, the hospital wanted you to pay first. And if you couldn’t, they’d tell you to go to DSWD or PCSO, or to your congressman. It was a maze.
People were already sick, already tired, and the system made them even more hopeless.
I remember a man I met at the hospital once. He was holding a bag of rice and some clothes. His wife was inside, waiting for an operation. He said, “Kung hindi lang kami nagbenta ng baboy namin, baka wala na siya.” They sold their only pig — their livelihood — just to buy medicine.
That’s the kind of desperation that millions of Filipinos understand. Not because they’re lazy or careless, but because help is there — it’s just too far, too complicated, too hidden.
Then Came the Malasakit Centers
Years later, I heard about the Malasakit Centers. A one-stop shop inside public hospitals where poor patients could go to get help from DSWD, PCSO, PhilHealth, and the hospital — all in one place.
No more running from one office to another. No more losing a whole day just to get ₱200.
When I first heard it, I thought,
“Ay, buti naman. Matagal na dapat ito.”
And that’s the truth.
For the first time, the government made compassion practical. It wasn’t just about giving aid. It was about designing a system that made aid accessible.
Stories From the Ground
Last year, a friend of mine in Cebu told me about her father. He had a stroke. They rushed him to a public hospital. She was panicking — she didn’t know where to start. Then a nurse told her, “Ma’am, doon po sa Malasakit Center. Tutulungan nila kayo.”
In two hours, she got medical assistance from DSWD, a PhilHealth coverage check, and a guarantee letter from PCSO for part of the medicine cost. All in one room.
She said, “Kung noon pa ito, baka di na ako umiyak sa pila.”
That’s the kind of small miracle people remember. It doesn’t make you rich. It just makes life a little kinder.
Let’s Give Credit Where It’s Due
Now, let’s be fair. The Malasakit Centers were pushed by Senator Bong Go. He sponsored the law that made them official. He visited hospitals, talked to patients, made sure the system spread nationwide.
That’s good work. He deserves credit for believing in it.
But here’s where it gets tricky. Because soon, everything about the Malasakit Centers started to look like a campaign.
His face was everywhere — on walls, on ambulances, even on relief goods. People began to joke that he was the Pambansang Photobomber.
The problem isn’t that he helped. The problem is that he couldn’t help without a camera nearby.
When Help Becomes a Billboard
You’ve seen it too. A sack of rice with a politician’s name. A waiting shed with a giant tarpaulin: “Project of Congressman So-and-So.”
It’s not just annoying. It’s dangerous.
Because it teaches people to say thank you for what already belongs to them.
The money used for the Malasakit Centers — the buildings, the staff, the equipment — doesn’t come from any politician’s pocket. It comes from our taxes.
So when you see a Malasakit Center, don’t think “Wow, si Bong Go talaga.” Think, “Wow, ganito dapat ang gobyerno — tuloy-tuloy ang serbisyo, kahit sino ang presidente.”
Two Truths Can Coexist
This is where many Filipinos struggle. We want to pick sides. Either we praise everything or condemn everything.
But mature citizenship means holding two truths at the same time:
- The Malasakit Centers are a good idea that helps people.
- Bong Go and his allies still have to answer for serious allegations — from Pharmally deals to misuse of power.
One truth doesn’t cancel the other.
You can say thank you for the idea — and still demand justice for the crimes.
You can say “Magaling ito” — and still say “Pero managot ka.”
That’s not being negative. That’s being responsible.
The Hidden Heroes
Here’s something most people don’t see: The real heart of the Malasakit Centers isn’t the senator. It’s the nurses, the social workers, and the clerks who sit there every day, explaining forms and helping families who can barely read.
One social worker in Laguna told me,
“Minsan, pagod na pagod na ako. Pero pag may bata na nagsabi ng ‘Salamat po,’ parang sulit na ulit.”
Another said,
“We’re glad this exists. At least di na umiiyak ang pasyente sa labas.”
They are the ones who make malasakit real. They don’t have posters. They don’t get applause. But they show up — quietly, faithfully.
The Bigger Lesson
When we say malasakit, it shouldn’t point to a person. It should point to a principle.
Because in the end, the best kind of help isn’t the one that makes you say “Thank you, Senator.” It’s the one that makes you say “Thank you, government.” Better yet — “Thank you, us.”
Because we built that system. We paid for it. We deserve it.
The Weight of the Past
Of course, none of this erases the blood on the streets. Tens of thousands died in the so-called “war on drugs.” Families were torn apart. Many still wait for justice.
No Malasakit Center can wash that away.
And that’s why it’s dangerous when politicians use good projects as shields for their sins. They say, “Look at what we built,” while hoping we forget what they broke.
We can’t forget. We can be thankful — but we must also be truthful.
From Pain to Progress
Sometimes I think back to that day in Antipolo — the long line, the ₱200, my mother’s tired face. If a Malasakit Center existed back then, things might have been different. We would’ve saved time, money, and maybe a little bit of hope.
That’s why I still believe it’s a good system. Not perfect, but better than before.
Because when a poor family gets help faster, that’s a win for everyone. When compassion becomes efficient, that’s progress.
But I also know this: Progress doesn’t mean we stop asking questions.
A Call for Real Malasakit
Here’s what I hope every Filipino remembers:
- Public service is not a favor. It’s a duty. Politicians are servants, not saviors.
- Good systems should outlive politicians. Let’s protect the Malasakit Centers from being turned into personal projects. The next generation should see them as public institutions, not campaign offices.
- We can be grateful and critical at the same time. Saying “thank you” doesn’t mean “I’ll forget.”
Maybe the real shift isn’t in hospitals or laws. Maybe it’s in how we think.
From utang na loob to karapatan. From pasasalamat sa politiko to pagmamalaki sa bayan.
When we see something good, we support it. When we see something wrong, we speak up.
That’s real malasakit — not the kind that needs cameras, but the kind that builds character.
The Final Word
So yes, let’s thank Bong Go for helping start the Malasakit Centers. That’s fair.
But let’s not forget: He didn’t build them alone. It took Congress, the DOH, DSWD, PCSO, PhilHealth, and hundreds of ordinary government workers. It took taxpayers — people like you and me — who funded it.
And while we can be thankful for this one good thing, we can also demand accountability for the bad things.
Because real malasakit doesn’t turn a blind eye. It tells the truth, even when it’s inconvenient.
It’s what I learned the hard way, standing in that long line years ago.
We don’t need politicians who look like they care. We need a government that works because it cares.
And that, more than any slogan or selfie, is the kind of malasakit our country deserves.
