‘On paper, the combined earnings of Pagcor and PCSO are a sign of prosperity. In reality, each peso comes with a hidden cost — fractured households, abandoned classrooms, and eroded futures.’
(Last of two parts)
THE numbers dazzle, often echoed with national pride.
The Philippine Amusement and Gaming Corporation (Pagcor) and the Philippine Charity Sweepstakes Office (PCSO) funnel billions into government coffers each year.
These revenues are framed as lifelines for healthcare, education, and infrastructure — a fiscal triumph.
But beneath this sheen lies a truth we rarely confront: the human wreckage that gambling leaves in its wake, especially among children. Are we willing to fund development with broken families?
Pagcor, a government-owned corporation under Chairman Alejandro Tengco and President Wilma Eisma, runs casinos and regulates gaming, while the PCSO, led by Chairman Felix Reyes and General Manager Mel Robles, administers lotteries.
Their combined earnings in 2024 were staggering — ₱112 billion from PAGCOR, driven by a 41% surge in Electronic Games, and another ₱62.35 billion from PCSO’s gaming products.
On paper, the combined earnings of Pagcor and PCSO are a sign of prosperity. In reality, each peso comes with a hidden cost — fractured households, abandoned classrooms, and eroded futures.
Gambling doesn’t scream its way into lives — it sneaks in insidiously.
What starts as play morphs into compulsion. Salaries vanish. Homes are mortgaged. Debts snowball.
The sanctuary of home turns hostile — trust evaporates, and arguments erupt. Spouses suffer neglect. Children bear silent witness. Anxiety and depression take root. Emotional wounds turn into developmental delays.
Brian G., a multi-media content creator and father, confessed to gambling away the money meant for his son’s surgery.
“That night, I lost everything,” he recounted. Today, he designs shirts to fund rehab centers — a daily act of restitution.
Addiction centers like Bridges of Hope report a grim rise. Their Chairman, Jon Ty, recently stated that “seven out of ten monthly admissions are now addicted to online gaming,” surpassing cases linked to drugs or alcohol.
A crisis once peripheral is now central — and increasingly digital.
The most chilling twist? Minors can play too. The very apps meant to promote financial inclusion — GCash, Maya, and Coins.ph among others — have become gateways to digital vice.
Electronic Money Issuers (EMIs) were designed to democratize access to financial services, enabling the unbanked to pay bills, send remittances, and participate in the digital economy.
But in the absence of robust safeguards, these platforms have become frictionless conduits for gambling.
Some embed dice games directly into their interfaces. Others allow seamless transfers to offshore betting sites.
The result? A system that quietly lubricates addiction while masking itself as progress.
A 2023 UP study revealed 34% of college students had gambled online while PSA data estimated that 8% of minors aged 15–20 had engaged in gambling.
Senator Win Gatchalian has filed a resolution to investigate students accessing platforms like Bingo Plus and OKBet.
Despite Presidential Decree No. 1869 barring those under 21 from games of chance, enforcement is laughable.
The chilling ease of access was plainly described by one lawmaker:
“Even a Grade 10 student can open GCash, tap a dice icon, and enter a live casino in seconds.”
This pervasive digital vice, however, isn’t confined to the youth.
In a stark display of hypocrisy, even during President Ferdinand R. Marcos Jr.’s 4th State of the Nation Address, some legislators were reportedly caught watching sabong on their devices.
One can only surmise if their e-wallets were similarly engaged in wagering, underscoring the frustrating cycle where grand rhetoric during the SONA is consistently met with a profound lack of political will to impose genuine reform.
There are no robust age checks, no friction, just taps and temptation.
Social media, meanwhile, floods screens with promos and gimmicks.
The Department of Education (DepEd), under Secretary Sonny Angara, has already recorded gambling incidents among learners. The results? Theft, absenteeism, and behavioral spirals.
The World Health Organization (WHO) classifies gambling disorder as a mental illness.
And in extreme addiction, crime follows: fraud, theft, and desperation.
Every budget has trade-offs. But when public gains are built on personal ruin, we’re not budgeting — we’re bargaining.
We face a Faustian bargain — a dangerous trade-off where short-term profit eclipses long-term damage. The term stems from the legend of Faust, a scholar who sold his soul for fleeting power and pleasure.
Shella B., 45, once won ₱15,000 on a gambling app. Within months, she had lost ₱200,000 and nearly her family.
“I sold my soul,” she said. She deleted the apps, destroyed her SIM card, and clawed her way back to sanity.
That is today’s context; it mirrors our government’s choice, as evidenced by Pagcor and PCSO, to fund development through gambling profits — despite the emotional, developmental, and societal wreckage it leaves in its wake.
To ensure fairness, I reached out to both Pagcor and PCSO with detailed questions regarding their safeguards, youth protection protocols, and digital oversight. Both agencies acknowledged receipt of my queries. As of this writing, however, they have yet to respond with substantive answers.
The moral equation gets uglier with offshore gambling sites thriving beyond regulation.
No centralized body governs digital gambling in the Philippines.
EMIs such as GCash, Maya, and Coins.ph, among others, plus messaging apps such as Facebook Messenger, WeChat and ViberPay, among others, enabling money transfer, quietly lubricate the system — some even embedding dice games directly into apps.
Minors misrepresent their ages or borrow credentials. “Junior accounts” exist — but enforcement is porous at best.
The Department of Information and Communications Technology (DICT), led by Secretary Henry Aguda, tasked with cybersecurity and digital governance, must transcend its technical role and become a full regulatory partner.
Here’s the blueprint that we are recommending:
1. Mandatory Public Good Allocation: Designate a fixed portion of gambling revenues for rehab, education, and awareness — not as charity, but as restitution.
2. Shield Minors: Strip e-wallet apps of gambling links. Enforce biometric age checks tied to National IDs. Block gambling-related payments using AI-powered pattern detection.
3. Leverage Proven Tech: Deploy tools like AML/CTF software such as eComply, with real-time eKYC capabilities fully compliant with AMLA.
4. Strengthen Social Media Takedowns: Monitor and remove gambling promos targeting youth.
5. Promote Hotline Reporting: Scale up CICC’s 136 hotline.
6. Launch Digital Literacy Programs: Arm parents and students with the knowledge to resist digital vice.
7. National Redemption Fund: Establish a dedicated fund sourced from gambling revenues to support rehabilitation, mental health services, family reintegration programs, and community rebuilding. This isn’t charity — it’s moral restitution. Every peso must be traced back to the lives it disrupted.
Ultimately, the government must rethink its revenue strategy.
Development must never hinge on addiction. Prosperity built on fractured homes is no triumph — it’s a tragedy. It should be built on ethical, sustainable income.
Billions may be counted. The damage cannot.
Behind each Pagcor press release is a household unraveling.
Behind each PCSO billboard is a child going hungry while a parent chases phantom riches.
A nation’s strength isn’t measured in jackpots — it’s measured in the lives it safeguards.
This isn’t national glory. It’s a reckoning.
It’s time to reject the Faustian bargain. No hospital is worth a child’s trauma. No classroom is worth a family’s collapse.
We must redraw the line between civic ambition and moral compromise.
What remains isn’t pride. It’s silence.
The silence after a drained account. A missed meal. A childhood lost to flashing screens and false promises.
We can still choose differently. But the window is narrowing.
If we fail to protect the vulnerable now, the price won’t be counted in pesos — but in futures forfeited.
