I don’t know if I’m the only one who’s noticed it, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen cars bearing the No. 7 or No. 8 license plates—those reserved for senators and members of the House of Representatives. I live in the northern part of Metro Manila, a place where many lawmakers are known to reside. It used to be that you couldn’t drive down Commonwealth Avenue or through some village streets without spotting those cars or their convoys.

Now, they’re nowhere to be seen. The flashing lights of a car with a special plate, with escorts bullying their way through traffic—they, too, seem to have disappeared.

Of course there are still convoys weaving through traffic, but there’s no car with a special plate among them. But there’s always a luxury SUV and a vehicle trailing it while occupying half of the next lane, effectively blocking the path of other vehicles – and causing traffic. Unfortunately, that sign of privilege is still on the road.

Even at the neighborhood salon where I spend lazy Sunday afternoons, it’s been quite a while since I've seen clientele with bodyguards in polo barong waiting silently in the reception area.

At first, I thought it was just coincidence. But then came the Speaker of the House himself, confirming what many of us have quietly sensed. During last Monday’s flag-raising ceremony, Speaker Faustino “Bojie” Dy III admitted that public trust in the House of Representatives has dropped sharply. While he didn’t cite specific figures, he didn’t need to. His words said enough:

“Masakit mang tanggapin—talagang bumaba ang tiwala ng taumbayan sa ating institusyon (It hurts to admit it—the people’s trust in our institution has truly plummeted.)”

He shared stories of House employees commuting to work not in their uniforms, afraid of public scorn. The shame and fear, it seems, are no longer limited to those directly involved in the scandal. Even those simply working in the building feel the sting of public anger.

And who can blame the public? We’ve all seen the headlines and heard the reports—alleged ghost projects, particularly in flood control, with billions of pesos paid for infrastructure that either doesn’t exist or was built so poorly it might as well not. The damage isn’t just financial—it’s moral and institutional. The sense of betrayal runs deep.

President Marcos himself has acknowledged this, saying recently that the government must reform itself to regain public trust. He didn’t mince words, either. He spoke of “systemic dysfunction,” “unscrupulous abuse of power,” and the urgency of change. His call was clear: trust can only be rebuilt through honest governance, accountability, and a genuine commitment to public service.

So perhaps this new silence—the absence of arrogance on the streets, the missing motorcades and privilege plates—isn’t a coincidence at all. Perhaps it’s a sign that even the powerful are feeling the weight of the public’s anger. That they know visibility, for now, might come with consequences.

Are these signs of the times? A quiet reckoning? Or is this just a temporary retreat, waiting for the storm to pass?

The Speaker’s words ended on a hopeful note—about regaining trust, about rebuilding. But if rebuilding is truly the goal, it must start with real reforms, not just optics. Filipinos are tired of apologies without accountability, of promises without follow-through.

And yet, we continue to hope. We hope that the absence of privilege from our roads reflects not just fear—but reflection. Not just retreat—but resolve.

Because trust, once lost, is not easily won back. But with humility, transparency, and work that speaks louder than words, maybe—just maybe—it can be earned again. (Email: [email protected])