SOME lessons arrive quietly. I remember a fisherman from Carles, Manong Nardo, his palms rough as old rope. After Yolanda flattened the coast, he gathered planks that the sea had tossed onto the shore. Those boards could not be traced to anyone; they were wreckage in a landscape of loss. When responders saw him picking them up, there was no shouting, no lecture—only tired eyes recognizing a tired man. The law was clear, but life had been clearer. They allowed him to rebuild because storms do not come with receipts.
We grow up believing laws are anchors of order. Yet hunger and crisis test theories the way wind tests houses. What happened that day was not defiance—it was compassion choosing relevance. The law did not bend because someone felt entitled. It bent because survival demanded space to breathe.
That same tension echoed recently in the Senate when Senator Erwin Tulfo said, “Sometimes you have to bend the law.” Many understood his point as frustration over stolen public funds, especially in flood-prone communities. Others heard danger—because in this country, bending rules has saved the poor on one hand and shielded the powerful on the other.
Laws were not carved to replace humanity but to reflect it. From ancient principles of equity to modern restorative justice, societies have long recognized that punishment without proportion becomes harm. When the law humiliates more than it heals or protects only those who already sit above it, something is broken that no technicality can patch.
Daily life proves this. A mother arriving at the ER without cash but with a burning child is not a criminal. A jeepney driver caught between schedules and storms is not a threat to the State. A student selling bibingka to fund modules should not be treated like a smuggler. These moments are not loopholes; they are complexity wearing a face.
But here is the caution. Bending the law for those with little power is mercy. Bending it for those with influence is manipulation. We have witnessed the televised denials, the notarized explanations, and the well-lit press conferences. That is why the discussion on restitution struck a nerve. When Senator Rodante Marcoleta insisted that those seeking witness protection, like the Discayas, need not return any alleged stolen money, the public balked. Ordinary families return mismatched change and borrowed tools without lawyers or cameras. If accountability is heavy, why should it fall only on shoulders already burdened?
The test is simple: Does the flexibility lift the struggling or cushion the comfortable? If it shelters the corrupt, it is not compassion—it is convenience wrapped in legal language.
The most polished laws will fail if they abandon common sense. Rules that block a thirsty child from crossing a broken boundary after a typhoon may be lawful, but are not right. Rules that punish the farmer selling vegetables beside his land while large-scale anomalies are debated like theories only breed resentment. The question is not only what the law says but whether the result honors dignity.
Teachers know this well. We give second chances not because standards disappear, but because context speaks. A learner who walked kilometers under the heat sits differently from one driven to school. Extension is not favoritism; it is fairness recognizing uneven starting lines.
Years later, I met two of Manong Nardo’s children—grown, working, steady. “Kung ginpunish pa si Tatay, basi indi ko nakapadayon eskwela,” one said. A single moment of mercy skipped the family past years of delay. Had the law been rigid that day, the government might have claimed victory, but society would have carried the cost.
The law should protect people, not corner them. It must be firm, but not brittle; clear, but not cold. The blindfold of justice symbolizes neutrality, not numbness. A nation cannot preach discipline solely downward while negotiation happens upward.
We do not resent the law—we resent when it forgets us. We resent when technicalities become shields, when apologies cost nothing, when consequences belong only to those without connections. The true power of the law is trust, not fear.
In the end, bending the law toward survival and dignity is not rebellion—it is responsibility. Laws are tools, not trophies. They must walk with people, not ahead of them. Life bends us daily. The least the law can do is bend just enough to remain human.
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Doc H calls himself a ”student of and for life” and, like many others, wants a life-giving, why-driven world dedicated to social justice and happiness. His views may not reflect those of his employers or associates.
