This Monday, August 25, we mark National Heroes Day once again. It is a date thick with reflection—on revolutions fought, sacrifices made, and the courage required to stand for something greater than oneself. Just last week, we remembered the martyrdom of Ninoy Aquino. Not too long ago, we honored the OFWs, teachers, frontliners, soldiers, mothers, and even farmers as modern-day heroes. But today, let us lend our gaze to the quiet, oft-overlooked backbone of our democracy: the dedicated civil servants of government. They may not have fought in trenches or sparked revolutions, but many of them fight every day—against inefficiency, indifference, red tape, corruption, nepotism, abuse of power, and the erosion of public trust.
Civil servants, by definition, are employees of government agencies who operate under the rules of the Civil Service Commission (CSC). They are not politicians, not elected or pampered appointees. They are the public school teachers writing lesson plans under candlelight, the social workers wading through floods to deliver relief, and the clerks who stamp your permits with precision and patience. They are the nurses at public hospitals, the engineers designing bridges, and the barangay secretaries issuing residency papers with handwritten care. They are the state employees who show up before 8 a.m., without flair or fanfare, not because a camera is watching but because the country needs them to.
Unfortunately, they are also the ones unfairly shadowed by the weight of their colleagues’ sins. Corruption, inefficiency, apathy—these are words that hound the term “government employee” like stubborn barnacles. But such generalizations are both inaccurate and unjust. According to former CSC Chairperson Karlo Nograles, there are over 1.9 million civil servants in the Philippines, and the majority of them perform their duties with diligence and dignity, often in difficult conditions. In fact, during the pandemic, it was these very people who manned checkpoints, processed emergency assistance, taught through unstable internet connections, and administered vaccines without extra pay.
Recently, I had a surprisingly smooth experience dealing with several government offices—PRC, NBI, City Hall at the Atrium, Clerk of Court, Police Precinct 1, ISUFST, and Brgy. Lapuz Norte. At the PRC alone, I renewed three licenses in just fifteen minutes. No fixers, no noon breaks, no fuss—just clear, professional, even kind service. It felt almost unreal, especially for anyone used to the usual bureaucratic maze. I even wrote about how I managed to process eight documents from six different agencies in just eight straight hours. To my surprise, government worked the way it should.
And yet, these moments should not be rare or treated as anomalies. They should be the norm. And they can be, when leadership insists on systems that reward competence, instill discipline, and value human dignity over hierarchy. It is not rocket science. As observed by the Philippine Institute for Development Studies (PIDS), improved frontline services translate to improved public perception and even national productivity. What it takes is a culture shift—from “pwede na” to “dapat tama.”
Still, behind every success story is a person who chooses to care. Like the DepEd teacher goes beyond class hours to give remediation with pupils in need. Or the local registrar who personally calls applicants to fix their errors instead of just rejecting forms. Or the barangay health worker who visits far-flung families to distribute medicine and promote reproductive health care. Or the municipal engineer who spends weekends inspecting rural roads, not because it is in his job description, but because he believes that dignity through standard infrastructure should reach even the remotest sitios. Their brand of heroism is not loud, but it is real. It is the kind of goodness that Ignatian spirituality speaks of: competence with conscience, service rooted in love.
Some may dismiss these as “doing the bare minimum.” But in a system where mediocrity has been normalized, even decency feels radical. Let us remember: the public does not owe civil servants gratitude. It is the other way around. Taxes fund their salaries, benefits, and pensions. That is why every kind gesture, every extra mile walked, every technical concern facilitated, every question answered with patience—is a small act of moral reparation. Yet the best among them do not count these moments as medals. They serve not for applause but out of a quiet, stubborn belief that government should mean something good.
We know, of course, that this is not always the case. There are still offices where queues snake like punishment, where rudeness is routine, where files disappear into mysterious black holes. We are not blind to the inefficiencies and injustices. But to lump everyone together is lazy and unfair. For every horror story, there is a public servant holding the line, ensuring that systems do not fully collapse. As psychologist professor Sylvia Estrada Claudio once wrote, the best civil servants do not ask whether the public deserves their courtesy. They ask whether they themselves are worthy of serving the public.
Consider the story of a small-town health worker in Antique who walks for hours each week to reach indigenous communities, not for a photo op, but to check on prenatal care. Or the administrative aide in Antique who keeps track of scholarship grantees by memory because digital systems have not yet arrived. Or the BIR officer who could have earned thrice in the private sector but stayed because he believes that fixing internal revenue means fixing the spine of the nation.
These are the everyday heroes we often miss. Not because they are hiding, but because our eyes are trained to look for spectacle. This Heroes Day, may we expand our field of vision. May we recognize the heroism in quiet rooms, slow elevators, and crowded counters. In government ID kiosks. In traffic enforcers managing unruly intersections. In teachers riding bangkas to reach coastal classrooms in Carles.
Let us also challenge our leaders to ensure that the environment in which civil servants work is one of justice and motivation. Leadership must mean enabling, not exploiting. It must mean training, not threatening. If we are to demand excellence from our civil servants, we must also offer them the systems and salaries that reflect our respect. We cannot expect miracles from broken structures. But we can demand better blueprints.
And so to the many nameless, faceless public servants who choose to serve with integrity: this day is yours. Not because you are perfect, but because you show up. You listen. You help. You care. That is more than enough to earn our respect. That is heroism in its most functional form.
Heroes do not always have grand backstories or dramatic exits. Sometimes, they are just there—typing reports, checking clearances, answering inquiries, fixing computer bugs, filing records. They wear no capes. But they keep the country from crumbling. One paper, one smile, one decent decision at a time.
This Heroes Day, let us not only honor the heroes of our past, but also the ones who quietly shape our present. Because the country lives and breathes not only through those who lead, but also through those who serve.
Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.
