By The Sunriser
In the ever-unfolding drama of Philippine law enforcement, the phrase “to serve and protect” now comes with a fine-print disclaimer: subject to sudden relocation without warning or explanation.
Just five days before the midterm elections, five officers of the Iloilo Police Provincial Office found themselves playing a real-life version of “Musical Chairs: Command Edition.” No music, just memos. No chairs, just cardboard boxes and confused transfers.
Major Kenn Albert Lepsia, Major Harold Rendora, Captains Cedrick Cruz and Johnny Oro, and Lieutenant Patrick John Alabado—all removed or reassigned without clear justification. Even Lieutenant Colonel Arnel Solis, regional director of PRO-6, admitted he was in the dark: “Wala ako full idea,” he said, with all the conviction of someone reading footnotes from a telenovela script.
But inside Camp Martin Delgado, insiders know what truly moved the pieces.
It wasn’t intelligence reports. It wasn’t disciplinary findings. It wasn’t strategic reshuffling.
It was a Whisperer.
Yes, that mysterious figure in every bureaucracy—the one who doesn’t sign papers but whose breath moves mountains. The one who whispers just the right thing into the ear of someone who holds power but loses his head in the process. In local parlance, “gin-barenahan ang ulo.”
That’s right. An influential figure—a puppet master of quiet influence—reportedly planted the seed of doubt, which quickly grew into a full-blown personnel quake. In one whisper, careers got paused, duties were reshuffled, and the already-tense pre-election environment became a little more absurd.
Meanwhile, the public was told, Don’t worry, election security won’t be affected. Of course not. Because nothing says readiness like uprooting your key officers right before game day.
Let’s be honest: what kind of message does this send to the rank and file?
Imagine being a police officer, working your beat, following protocols, hitting your KPIs—and then, boom, you’re out. Transferred. No explanation. Just the faint echo of someone else’s political paranoia or personal vendetta.
Demoralization doesn’t come from long hours or danger. It comes from being treated like pawns in someone else’s whisper war.
And if the Capiz case is any indicator—where a lieutenant colonel was relieved for a violation that remains “unverified”—we may now be operating under Oplan: Gut Feel Governance. The new standard seems to be: “We’ll remove you now, and figure out why later.”
If this is a purge, then say so and stand by it. If it’s politics, at least have the decency to admit that power—not performance—is the basis for command. But if we continue this habit of letting backdoor murmurs override official metrics, then let’s drop the pretense of professionalism and call it what it is: career roulette.
So here’s a modest proposal. The next time a police officer is removed due to whispers, hand them a small card:
“You have been relieved not for incompetence, not for failure, but because a Whisperer told a Power holder who couldn’t say no. Please continue to serve with integrity while being unsure of who’s next.”
Because in this system, transparency may be optional—but satire writes itself.
