By: Atty. Gregorio B. Austral, CPA
The Anti-Epal clause in the 2026 Budget: Promise, performance, and the public
Every year, Congress inserts an anti-epal provision in the General Appropriations Act. And every year, the Filipino people ask the same question: Does it actually work? The 2026 GAA is no exception. It contains the familiar language prohibiting public officials from placing their names, initials, images, or likenesses on government-funded projects, vehicles, equipment, and infrastructure. The intent is noble: to stop the long-standing practice of using public funds for private political branding.
But intent is not the same as impact. And when we examine the anti-epal clause through the lens of the rule of law, its effectiveness becomes far less certain.
The first problem is structural. The GAA is a budget law, not a penal statute. It can prohibit, but it cannot punish. It can declare a practice improper, but it cannot impose criminal or administrative liability unless another law already provides for it. The result is a provision that sounds strong but lacks teeth. Violations are “not allowed,” but the consequences are undefined. Agencies may issue reminders. COA may issue notices. But without a clear enforcement mechanism, the anti-epal rule becomes more moral exhortation than legal command.
The second problem is institutional. Enforcement depends on the very officials who benefit from non-enforcement. The Department of Public Works and Highways must police its own contractors. Local governments must police their own mayors. National agencies must police their own regional directors. In a political culture where visibility is currency, expecting self-regulation is optimistic at best. The rule of law requires neutral enforcement; the anti-epal clause relies on voluntary compliance.
The third problem is cultural. Epal politics persists because it works. Politicians know that name recall translates into votes, and voters have been conditioned to associate public works with personal generosity. Until the public demands a different kind of accountability—one that values performance over publicity—the incentives remain misaligned. A budget provision cannot, by itself, undo decades of political habit.
Yet it would be unfair to dismiss the anti-epal clause entirely. It has symbolic value. It affirms a constitutional truth: that public funds belong to the public, and that no official may appropriate credit for what taxpayers have paid for. It gives citizens a legal basis to complain. It gives COA a framework to question questionable markings. It gives civil society a tool to pressure agencies into compliance. Symbolism is not nothing; in a democracy, it can be the seed of reform.
But symbolism must eventually mature into substance. If the government is serious about ending epal politics, it must go beyond annual budget language. It must enact a permanent, enforceable statute with clear penalties. It must empower COA and the Ombudsman to act swiftly on violations. It must require agencies to remove unauthorized markings at the violator’s expense. And it must educate the public that government projects are not gifts from politicians—they are obligations of the State.
The anti-epal clause in the 2026 GAA is a step, but it is not a solution. It is a reminder of what good governance should look like, but not yet a mechanism that guarantees it. The Filipino people deserve more than reminders. They deserve a government that does not need to be told that public funds are not campaign materials. They deserve institutions that enforce rules not because they are politically convenient, but because they are constitutionally required.
Until then, the anti-epal clause remains what it has long been: a promise waiting for the courage to become law.