In the politics inside the Philippines, a name is rarely just a name. It is a demand to be remembered. That is why it has been aggressively etched by politicians onto walls, bridges, tarpaulins, and even waiting sheds,that were paid for by the people who never asked to see it.
The Department of the Interior and Local Government (DILG) order to enforce the Anti-Epal policy nationwide is not a radical change, but rather a correction. The memorandum simply restates what the constitution has been saying since 1987: that the public office is a public trust, not a chance to make your name. Government projects are paid for by taxpayers, not by the generosity of the official who plastered his name across it. That distinction is important because it draws the line between public service and self-promotion.
If I were to get a peso for each time I see a project bearing a politician’s name, I would have hundreds, which in itself says a lot on why the practice should be abolished. Whether we like it or not, name recalls win elections. And if the supposed candidates have big projects to show as shining examples to what they have accomplished during their term, it completely disregards the point of why they are serving in the first place—to serve the people, even without compensation.
A name on a project can easily rewrite reality. A road funded by taxpayers can become “his” road. A health center built through using national allocations can become “her” program”. Over tim, the public is trained to associate basic governance as an act of generosity of politicians. This is how gratitude replaces accountability, and why politicians desperately try and fight to be visible to the public. In a country where name recall often matters more than track record, being unknown to the public is the same as being buried and forgotten.
This is why the policy matters. To finally disrupt a normalized political habit that thrives on confusion. When officials try to attach their names to public projects, they are not informing the public. They are conditioning them to believe that this is how they should be remembered—as thoughtful officials who supposedly care for the public. They blur the line between obligation and kindness, and in doing so, shift the conversation away from whether they needed the project or was it efficiently implemented, and toward who should be thanked for it.
People may argue that this practice promotes transparency and lets the community know who is responsible. But accountability does not live in tarpaulins or painted walls. It lives in budgets, records, reports, and outcomes that can be measured long after the politician. A name on a simple project explains nothing about cost, quality or sustainability. It only explains who wants to be remembered.
The DILG order is not censorship. It is a reminder. A reminder that public service is not supposed to be loud, branded, or self-congratulatory. It is supposed to be quiet but impactful. It is supposed to function even when no one is looking, even when no one remembers that you were the one to build a basketball court or establish a new way of handling complaints from the community.
Names are powerful because they shape memory. But public service should not ask for it to be remembered by name. It should be remembered by impact. When the paint fades away, what should only remain is the only thing that matter: whether the public was truly served.
Written by Ash Malig, Insight PH
Ash Malig, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
