In many places, the system designed to provide Senior and PWD discounts is under scrutiny due to corruption concerns, impacting the very people it was intended to help.
In the Philippines, compassion has been turned into theater. On paper, Senior and PWD discounts look like generosity. In reality, they are something else: the state takes from Juan to give to Pedro—and then bowing as the benevolent master.
Every day, small businesses eat the cost of these mandated discounts. Government spends nothing, yet reaps the applause. This not about being against these sectors. Seniors and PWDs get token relief, entrepreneurs bleed, and the true bandits—the corrupt—slip away untouched, living like kings on money siphoned from the very people they pretend to protect.
And maybe that’s the point. By creating benefits that cost them nothing, politicians free up more public funds to pocket while keeping face as “champions of the people.” It’s a neat trick: perform compassion onstage while looting backstage.
The Scandal in Plain Sight
Consider the flood-control scandal now gripping Congress and Senate inquiries. Engineers testified that projects were overpriced or built substandard so that kickbacks—sometimes 20% or more of project costs—could be siphoned to legislators, DPWH officials, and contractors. Reports even link some lawmakers to lavish lifestyles: convoys of SUVs, sprawling mansions, nights lost to casino gambling.
Here’s the bitter irony: the very same Congress and Senate that passed the Senior and PWD discount laws are the ones under scrutiny for these rackets. They wrote compassion into law without funding it, forcing entrepreneurs to absorb the cost. With the other hand, they signed off on projects designed to siphon billions. Onstage, they play benevolent lawmakers; offstage, they are accused of looting the treasury.
Ask yourself: can even an empire of 100 restaurants—running flat-out, sleepless, across the country—sustain that kind of wealth? No. Kahit may 100 restaurants ka, you cannot live that kind of life honestly.
The Bill That Isn’t Theirs
RA 9994 and RA 10754 require a 20% discount plus VAT exemption for seniors and PWDs. But here’s the sleight of hand: the state doesn’t pay a cent. Businesses do.
The law allows discounts to be deducted from gross income. But for a sari-sari store, a carinderia, or a young café just finding its footing, that’s an empty gesture. A deduction doesn’t pay today’s wages, rent, or suppliers. It’s not reimbursement. It’s an IOU that never clears.
Margins in food hover at 5–10%. A ₱500 meal cut by ₱120 wipes out the profit. And that ₱120 doesn’t just vanish into thin air—it comes directly from operating funds and revolving capital. That’s money meant to pay salaries, stock ingredients, or cover the next month’s rent. For a small eatery moving 25–30 discounted meals a day, that’s ₱3,000 gone. Enough to cover one worker’s weekly wage—or the electricity bill for the entire store.
And if the bleeding at the counter weren’t enough, the law carries steep penalties for non-compliance—fines so heavy they invite abuse. Inspectors and fixers know this, and some use it as leverage. Suddenly, you’re not just losing money to discounts—you’re being squeezed into under-the-table deals just to keep your business alive.
For the small business owner and the budding entrepreneur, it’s a double whammy: bleed at the counter, then bleed in the backroom. And all of it taken from the very funds that were supposed to keep the lights on.
Vagueness as a Weapon
The rules are murky. Does the discount apply to delivery? To buffets? To shared meals or promo prices? Agencies issue circulars, but interpretations shift, and enforcement is inconsistent.
The result? Daily skirmishes at the counter. Some customers demand more than the law allows. Owners, fearful of penalties, cave in. Both sides leave resentful.
And this is the deeper wound: when laws are vague, trust collapses. Seniors feel entitled, entrepreneurs feel cheated, and every meal becomes a standoff. Compassion curdles into suspicion. The law turns Filipinos against each other while shielding the real culprits.
The Decoy Effect
This is the scam in its clearest form. Discounts are not welfare. They are props in a stage play.
Politicians hand out gifts they never paid for. They pose as Robin Hood—but in reverse. They take from Juan, pass crumbs to Pedro, then take the bow as heroes of the poor.
Meanwhile, billions disappear backstage. Flood-control projects alone have bled staggering sums. PhilHealth has been flagged for billions in questionable reimbursements. The discount is the magician’s wave of the hand. The real trick is distraction: while we argue over ₱100 at the table, billions meant for hospitals, pensions, and jobs vanish elsewhere.
Imagine the Alternative
Imagine what kind of country we could live in if even a fraction of this siphoned wealth went to real social services. Billions lost to ghost projects and padded contracts could have built world-class hospitals, expanded PhilHealth into a truly universal system, and guaranteed pensions so seniors wouldn’t need discounts to survive. It could have funded rehabilitation centers, inclusive schools, and job programs for PWDs.
Instead, our leaders chose the cheaper illusion—laws that cost government nothing—while pocketing the money that could have transformed lives.
Who Really Pays?
Here’s the cruel math: Juan—the entrepreneur—pays. Pedro—the senior or PWD—receives. And the politician, standing in the middle, claims credit for a gift he never gave.
The truth? We are all victims of the same decoy. Seniors and PWDs get crumbs that don’t meet their real needs. Entrepreneurs shoulder losses government should absorb. Both are turned against each other, while the true bandits live untouched, laughing behind tinted windows.
This is not compassion. It is choreography. A performance of generosity that hides a system built on leakage and theft.
Toward Real Care
Filipinos know how to care for one another. We honor elders. We support PWDs. We respect hard work. But these values should never be weaponized as theater.
If government truly wants to help, it must stop outsourcing compassion and start paying the bill. That means direct subsidies, real pensions, and social protection strong enough to serve without bankrupting small businesses.
Until then, Senior and PWD discounts remain what they are: a benevolent decoy to hide corruption.
And we are left with the hardest question: Does it still make sense to own a business—carrying all the risk—when government takes the credit and the real bandits take the spoils?
