Who’s afraid of the SALN?

Apparently, a few who have reason to be.

For five years, the nation’s simplest anticorruption tool—the statement of assets, liabilities, and net worth (SALN) of public servants—was locked away from the very public it was meant to protect. What began as a document of accountability became a state secret. In 2020, then-Ombudsman Samuel Martires required notarized consent before any copy could be released. He turned a constitutional right into a privilege dispensed by those it was meant to restrain.

A year later, the rule was challenged before the Supreme Court in Biraogo v. Ombudsman Martires. A public-interest lawyer argued that it violated both constitutional and statutory guarantees. But the Court dismissed the case without striking down the rule, citing a lack of actual controversy. Its silence left the circular standing—a quiet retreat that dimmed the light of public scrutiny.

Now, Ombudsman Jesus Crispin Remulla has broken the lock. His new memorandum restores public access to SALNs, extending the disclosure period to 20 years and removing the consent requirement altogether. A clerical gesture, perhaps—but one that ripples beyond the page.

The SALN’s roots lie deep in the Constitution. Article XI, Section 17 commands every public officer to declare wealth, “and such declaration shall be disclosed to the public.” Republic Act No. 6713 turned that promise into procedure: file within 30 days of taking office, every April 30 thereafter, and again upon leaving.

By making SALNs accessible again, the Ombudsman restores the link between lifestyle and legality. A senator’s sudden real estate spree or a mayor’s mysterious fleet of cars can now be traced against declared income at the Bureau of Internal Revenue. The Anti-Money Laundering Council gains the scent of illicit flows, and the Commission on Audit tracks a paper trail through which public funds may betray their private destinations.

History has tested that process, often painfully. Former President Joseph Estrada was charged with perjury for an unfiled SALN, convicted of plunder, but cleared of lying. The late Supreme Court Chief Justice Renato Corona lost his robe for failing to disclose his dollar deposits, yet was later, after his death, acquitted of perjury and allowed his retirement benefits. Another former Supreme Court Chief Justice, Maria Lourdes Sereno, was removed through a quo warranto for missing SALNs while she was a professor at the University of the Philippines. In each case, the same document served both justice and vengeance: proof of greed, or excuse for purge.

That double edge remains. Remulla’s openness can expose corruption or arm persecution. It could shine on the ghost projects of flood control, where billions in concrete vanished into mud, or be aimed at political rivals, including the Vice President herself. Yet secrecy is no cure for weaponization. You don’t stop a witch hunt by outlawing the broom.

Still, the SALN is only as good as the watchdog behind it. For every Sherlock Holmes who sniffs out truth with disciplined curiosity, there’s an Inspector Javert who calls his vendetta a moral crusade. Transparency, like law, is no saint; it merely lends its light to whoever holds the torch—and not everyone who seeks light can be trusted not to burn.

The greater danger lies in performance without practice. If agencies stall behind “data privacy” or the Ombudsman’s desk drowns in unprocessed requests, this reform will die by paperwork. The people’s right to know means little if bureaucracy can smother it in silence.

Even so, the symbolism matters. The reopening of the SALN restores not just a form but a faith—that integrity can withstand inspection, and that sunlight is still the best disinfectant.

But symbolism must give way to example. Both the newly minted Ombudsman and the President who appointed him can make known their own SALNs—without waiting to be asked, without hiding behind the formality of requests. Nothing will prove the sincerity of this reform better than its voluntary practice by those who wield the most power.

In countries where corruption is an afterthought, transparency is instinct, not ritual. In France, assets of ministers are posted online; in Canada, officials file public declarations reviewed by an independent ethics commissioner; in Australia, registers of interests are searchable across federal and state levels. Where power lives in glass houses, it learns to keep its floors clean.

After all, the SALN is not just a document; it is democracy’s receipt. It reminds those in power that authority is borrowed, and every peso of public trust must be accounted for.

And if truth still makes some officials uneasy, perhaps that is proof the rule is finally working.

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Noel B. Lazaro is general counsel at a publicly listed company. He teaches remedial law and writes about constitutional and environmental issues.