2 responses to “Punishing the Small Fish: Sultan Usman Sarangani’s Case and the System That Protects the Powerful”

1. 

   Salman Pasandalan

   March 6, 2025

   I respectfully disagree with the portrayal of Sultan Usman Tantao Sarangani in this article. While the justice system must hold public officials accountable, it is equally important to ensure that due process is followed and that justice is fair, not selective.
   Having personally known Sultan Usman, I can confidently say that he is not the kind of leader who would engage in corruption for personal gain. He was not just a government official—he was a Paramount Sultan, a position that is not granted lightly. A Sultan is chosen based on wisdom, integrity, and leadership, qualities that Sultan Usman has demonstrated throughout his life.
   Was This Justice, or Just Selective Prosecution?
   The case against Sultan Usman raises serious questions about due process and fairness. The alleged offense happened in 2010, yet he was convicted only in 2025—15 years later. How can anyone properly defend themselves when key witnesses, like Nanayaon Dibaratun, have already passed away? This delay in prosecution is a violation of the constitutional right to a speedy trial and raises concerns about inordinate delay in the justice system.
   Additionally, if corruption was truly the issue, why was Sultan Usman convicted while many more powerful figures remain untouched? We have seen countless cases where high-ranking officials walk free despite clear evidence against them. If the government is truly serious about fighting corruption, it should hold everyone accountable, not just a select few.
   A Good Man Wrongly Punished
   Sultan Usman has served his people with honor, both as a public servant and as a traditional leader. Those who truly know him can attest that he is a man of principle and integrity. His conviction should not be seen as a victory against corruption but rather as a case study of a flawed justice system that sometimes punishes the wrong people while the real perpetrators remain free.
   If this country is serious about justice, it must not only punish individuals but also fix the broken system that allows corruption to thrive. Until then, convictions like this will continue to feel less like justice and more like selective accountability.

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   1. 

      Louis ‘Barok’ Biraogo

      March 6, 2025

      Thank you for your thoughtful comment and for engaging with my piece, “Punishing the Small Fish: Sultan Usman Sarangani’s Case and the System That Protects the Powerful.” I appreciate your respectful disagreement and the personal perspective you bring to the table—knowing Sultan Usman Sarangani personally is no small thing, and I don’t dismiss that lightly. But let’s unpack your points with the same rigor we’d apply to any case in this country where justice often feels like a coin toss: heads, you’re free; tails, you’re toast.

      On Character and Titles: Integrity Isn’t a Shield

      You paint Sultan Usman as a man of “wisdom, integrity, and leadership,” a Paramount Sultan chosen for those very qualities. I don’t doubt that you’ve seen those traits in him—titles like that aren’t handed out with the morning pandesal. But here’s the rub: character, no matter how sterling, doesn’t erase evidence. The Sandiganbayan’s 50-page ruling didn’t convict him on a whim or a hunch—it found him guilty of 16 counts of violating Section 3(e) of RA 3019. That’s “manifest partiality, evident bad faith, or gross inexcusable negligence” in bypassing public bidding laws to funnel contracts to favored firms tied to his co-accused, Nanayaon Dibaratun.
      A Sultan’s honor might inspire loyalty, but it doesn’t rewrite the Government Procurement Reform Act (RA 9184), which demands transparency and competition. The court didn’t question his personal charm or traditional stature—it ruled he broke the law in a way that cost the public. You say he wouldn’t engage in corruption for personal gain, and I’ll grant that the prosecution couldn’t prove he pocketed cash (hence his acquittal on Section 3(h)). But graft isn’t just about stuffing your own wallet—it’s about giving “unwarranted benefits” to others at the government’s expense, which the Sandiganbayan found he did. Good men can stumble, and even leaders with integrity can make choices that cross legal lines. The question isn’t whether he’s a saint—it’s whether the evidence holds up.

      Due Process and the Speedy Trial Conundrum

      You raise a fair point about the 15-year gap between the alleged offense in 2010 and the conviction in 2025. The death of Nanayaon Dibaratun, a key witness, and the glacial pace of this case do stink of the inordinate delays that plague our justice system. The Constitution guarantees a speedy trial, and when it takes a decade and a half to get a verdict—long enough for witnesses to die and memories to fade—it’s hard to call that justice with a straight face. I’ll give you that: it’s a flaw worth shouting about, and one I’d have flagged myself if I’d had more column inches.
      But let’s not confuse a systemic failure with a get-out-of-jail-free card. The Sandiganbayan still had enough evidence—documents, records, and whatever testimony survived—to convict on 16 counts. Delays hurt defendants, sure, but they don’t automatically nullify guilt. If anything, this bolsters my original point: the system’s creaky machinery often undermines itself, yet it still managed to pin Sarangani. That he couldn’t mount a perfect defense after 15 years doesn’t mean the prosecution’s case was baseless—it means our courts move slower than a carabao in quicksand. The fix isn’t to acquit; it’s to overhaul the Ombudsman and Sandiganbayan so justice doesn’t take coffee breaks that last entire presidencies.

      Selective Prosecution: We’re Not That Far Apart

      You ask why Sarangani was convicted while “more powerful figures remain untouched,” and here’s where our views align more than you might think. I called him a “small fish” for a reason—not because he’s insignificant, but because he’s not a senator, a cabinet secretary, or a dynasty kingpin with the clout to dodge the net. You see selective prosecution; I see selective accountability. Same coin, different sides. The likes of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo and Janet Napoles (post-conviction scandals notwithstanding) show how the system shields the big sharks while occasionally frying a mid-level catch like Sarangani.
      But here’s where we part ways: I don’t see his conviction as proof he’s a scapegoat singled out to take the fall. The evidence stuck to him—procurement violations aren’t abstract accusations; they’re paper trails. That others escape doesn’t make him innocent; it makes the system maddeningly inconsistent. If anything, his case proves my argument: the powerful stay untouchable not because Sarangani was framed, but because the networks of impunity I wrote about—weak whistleblower protections, lax auditing, political cover—keep the top dogs safe. He didn’t have those shields. That’s not selective prosecution in the conspiratorial sense; it’s selective vulnerability in a broken system.

      A Good Man Punished? Maybe, But the Law Doesn’t Care

      You call Sarangani “a good man wrongly punished,” a victim of a flawed system while “real perpetrators” roam free. I get the sentiment—nobody wants to see an honorable leader railroaded. But the Sandiganbayan didn’t convict him for being a bad person; it convicted him for specific acts the law defines as corrupt. Whether he’s a saint in private life or a hero to his people doesn’t change the fact that circumventing RA 9184 injured the public trust. The “real perpetrators” you mention—presumably the untouchable elites—don’t negate his guilt; they highlight the injustice of their freedom. Two wrongs don’t make a right, and one conviction doesn’t erase the need for more.

      Fixing the System: We Agree More Than You Think

      You close by saying the country must “fix the broken system that allows corruption to thrive,” and I couldn’t nod harder. My piece laid out reforms—transparent procurement, whistleblower protections, political consequences, judicial upgrades, asset recovery—because punishing one Sultan Usman doesn’t dismantle the rot. You want justice that doesn’t just punish but protects the innocent; I want justice that catches the guilty without letting the system off the hook. We’re not so different there. The difference is I see Sarangani’s conviction as a flawed step forward—imperfect, theatrical, but grounded in law—while you see it as a step backward, a good man crushed by a bad machine
      .
      Final Word: Justice Is Blind, But Not Always Fair

      I respect your loyalty to Sultan Usman and your frustration with a system that’s more circus than courtroom. His 112-year sentence is absurd on its face—capped at 40 years, it’s more headline than hammer—but it’s not baseless. The evidence, not his title or your testimony, sealed his fate. Could he be a good man who made bad calls? Sure. Does the system’s failure to nab bigger fish make his punishment feel unfair? Absolutely. But innocence isn’t proven by character references or procedural gripes—it’s proven by beating the case, and he didn’t.
      Until we fix the mess I wrote about—until justice isn’t just a lottery for the less connected—cases like this will keep dividing us. You see a miscarriage; I see a rare catch in a sea of impunity. Maybe we’re both right, just staring at different waves.

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