What’s the point?

What’s the point of writing reasoned, principled legal and policy opinions grounded in law, human rights, and basic decency if the people who hold power in this country, on both sides of the aisle, don’t give a single fart about implementing them?

The Office of the Ombudsman, independent by statute and charged with defending fairness in public administration, published a stark report on 18 December.

It chronicles a simple but fundamental injustice: Six parents whose children attend the San Miguel Resource Centre for special educational needs sought a meeting with the Director General for Educational Services. They wanted to be accompanied by two experienced representatives – people who had previously supported families in similar matters, not strangers, but people with lived experience.

The Director General refused. When the parents persisted, the entire meeting was cancelled.

The Ombudsman found the refusal to be a breach of parental rights under the Education Act and the Ombudsman Act itself. The recommendations made were modest and sensible: allow the representatives to attend a rescheduled meeting, and provide parents with a basic timetable showing what their children actually do during the school day.

The response from the education ministry was not reflection, contrition, or compliance. It was a refusal. Bureaucratic defensiveness. Thinly veiled suspicion of the parents’ chosen allies. The recommendations were not implemented.

End of story. At least as far as the ministry was concerned.

At that point, the Ombudsman did exactly what the law required. The matter was escalated to the Prime Minister. When nothing happened, the report was forwarded to the Speaker of the House so that it could be laid before Parliament.

And here is where the entire system collapses further into farce. It’s already pretty farcical that the whole Ombudsman process is the very embodiment of a toothless kitten, unless the officials whose actions (and often, inactions) are exposed.  I suppose it was once assumed that the prospect of being named and shamed was enough to galvanise recalcitrant mandarins into action.

Forgive me if I scoff lightly: in a country where if it isn’t illegal it must be ethical, that ship sailed, and foundered, decades ago.

What is the point of an Ombudsman if government ministries can simply ignore findings of maladministration? What is the point of Parliament if reports documenting clear breaches of rights are tabled, noted, and then quietly forgotten? And what is the point of an Opposition that fails to seize on such moments involving vulnerable children and their parents, to demand accountability?

This is not an isolated incident. It is a pattern. Ombudsman reports on education, public administration, freedom of expression, and fairness are routinely met with institutional shrugging. They are acknowledged, parked, politely disagreed with and buried. No sanctions follow. No consequences materialise. The message is unmistakable: reasoned oversight is optional.

The tragedy is not merely legal. It is moral. Parents advocating for children with special needs were denied something basic – the right not to face authority alone. The law of decency recognised that wrong. An independent constitutional office confirmed it. Yet the political class, collectively, chose indifference.

Democracy cannot survive on procedures alone. It depends on good faith. When reasoned opinions are ignored, when Parliament treats oversight as an inconvenience, and when ministers behave as though compliance is discretionary, the rule of law becomes performative.

So yes, one is entitled to ask, loudly and angrily, what is the scope of writing reasoned and principled opinions in a country where those at the top do not give a fart? If nothing changes, the answer is bleak: the opinions still matter, but not because power listens. They matter because someone must keep a record of how indifference became policy.