THE IRONY OF INJUSTICE: Floodwaters, Gambling, and the Death of a Son

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It was one of those nights in Metro Manila when the boundaries between land and sea ceased to exist. In Malabon and Navotas, torrential monsoon rains transformed roads into rivers. Families barricaded their homes, resigned to yet another flood—but for one family, it wasn’t just their belongings that were swept away. It was their hope.

On Tuesday, July 22, a father of six vanished. Not swept by waters—but by a broken system. His crime? Allegedly playing kara y krus, a coin-flipping street game that has now become a criminal offense under a draconian law passed in 1978—during the reign of Ferdinand Marcos Sr. That law was once justified as a safeguard against the vices that preyed on the poor. Decades later, not a single major gambling operator has been jailed under it. Only the nameless and powerless continue to be arrested.

This time, it was Gelo’s father.

Gelo—Dion Angelo, a 20-year-old college student and the eldest among six siblings—had no idea where his father had gone. Alongside his mother Jennylyn, who is blind in one eye, he began searching, sloshing through filthy, waist-deep floodwaters. Their journey was driven by panic and love.

For days, every police station in Caloocan, Malabon, and Navotas claimed ignorance. The family was left to suffer in suspense, until finally, on July 25, Gelo found his father shackled to five other detainees in a hidden corner of a precinct. He had been there all along. No calls. No records shown. The police, in silent conspiracy, had chosen to erase him.

Bail was set at ₱30,000—a laughable impossibility for a family living hand-to-mouth. As Gelo returned daily to bring his father food, wading through flood and filth, the cost was rising—not just financially, but physically. His body, overwhelmed by the toxic waters, began to fail.

By Sunday, July 27, Gelo was feverish. He apologized to his mother for not being able to visit the precinct or serve Mass that day. He was in pain. But he was still thinking of his father’s freedom.

That night, while his three-year-old sister slept nearby, Gelo’s breath stopped. The disease leptospirosis, transmitted through rat urine in floodwaters, had silently poisoned him.

He died not because of a game of chance, but because of a system that gambles with the lives of the poor.

A CRIME AGAINST HOPE

What is more criminal? A man playing a coin game to forget his hunger for a moment—or a state institution turning mobile phones into slot machines and enticing children into lifelong addiction?

Gelo’s father was arrested for a crime so minor that most would not even consider it one. Meanwhile, PAGCOR—the Philippine Amusement and Gaming Corporation—runs a sprawling web of online gambling operations under the guise of national revenue. The law is used not to protect the poor, but to make them pay for their poverty.

Once upon a time, laws prevented minors from entering casinos. Slot machines were forbidden in public places. Now, a child can place a bet online before learning to read a clock. Every mobile device is a casino. And if gambling is an addiction, then the government is the dealer.

How many children have watched their families fall apart in silence, while the state counts profits?

The hypocrisy is suffocating. In one hand, the government pushes gambling like sugar-coated poison. In the other, it imprisons the poor for indulging in it.

GELO: THE MARTYR OF A BROKEN SYSTEM

Gelo was not just a student. He was the family’s future. Studying Human Resource Services at Malabon City College, he dreamed of lifting his siblings from the slums, of giving his blind mother rest. Instead, he became a victim of two interconnected plagues: flooding from corruption, and injustice from weaponized poverty.

The same week Gelo died, the Catholic Bishops' Conference of the Philippines released a statement condemning online gambling. Kalookan Bishop Pablo Virgilio David, in another pastoral letter, condemned the corruption that allows flood control systems to fail despite billions in allocated funds. In Gelo’s death, those two evils collided.

The floodgate in their area had been broken for years. Just recently, ₱281 million had been allocated for its repair. Nothing changed. Corruption had stolen both infrastructure and security.

So while government agencies squander public funds, Gelo walked barefoot through diseased waters. And while high-ranking officials toast at casino tables, his family couldn’t even afford a funeral parlor for his wake. They held vigil on the street, beside traffic and noise.

A FATHER’S GRIEF, A NATION’S SHAME

When Gelo’s father heard about his son’s death, still chained behind bars, his wails echoed through the precinct. He blamed himself. He blamed God. He had been robbed not just of freedom, but of the chance to hold his son one last time.

And yet, the police still pushed forward with the case, still demanded he face trial for a coin game. He was temporarily released, thanks to a kind soul who posted bail—but the weight of injustice remains.

The real question isn’t why Gelo died. The question is how we allowed a system where this is normal. Where warrantless arrests are tools of control, where the justice system incentivizes false confessions, and where thousands rot behind bars—not because of guilt, but because they are too poor to prove innocence.

Is this justice?

LET THE FLOOD OF RIGHTEOUSNESS FLOW

The Book of Amos says: “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

But in this country, the only thing that flows freely is the flood—of water, of corruption, of sorrow.

As a nation, we must mourn not only Gelo’s death, but our collective failure. This tragedy is not isolated. It is part of a pattern—a system calibrated to crush the poor while the rich dance above the law.

We must rise. Churches, schools, media, civil society—this is your moment to speak.

Gelo’s life was not in vain. His death must become a movement. A cry that wakes us up from numbness. A name we must never forget.

A FINAL WORD

Let Gelo’s story be told not just in whispered prayers, but in courtrooms, policy debates, protest rallies, and ballot boxes.

To the lawmakers—repeal outdated laws that are used as weapons against the poor.

To the police—enforce justice, not quotas.

To PAGCOR—stop pushing addiction under the guise of revenue.

To every Filipino—ask yourself: How many more Gelo’s must die before we say: “Enough.”

Let us not wait for the next flood to wash away another life. Let us be the storm that drowns injustice.

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