FRIDAY, March 21, 7:30 p.m. — A power outage is expected around 1 a.m. in our area due to PALECO’s scheduled maintenance. I’m a prisoner of anticipation, waiting for this to happen as my thoughts keep returning to the House hearing on the spread of “fake news” via social media.
The content on YouTube was almost five hours lengthy, so I thought I’d rather not rewatch it. I’m used to paying attention to topics that are important to my work or captivating enough to merit an article, but this was just too long—tiring. However, we can’t really simply sit and not attempt to figure out what’s happening.
The House hearing took a sharp and emotional turn when a journalist, blogger, and staunch Duterte supporter found herself at the center of a heated inquiry. Having amassed over 480,000 likes on her old Facebook page and over 250,000 on her new one, her content have had measurable reach, garnering tens of thousands of impressions per post. But the key question asked by lawmakers was: does reach equate to responsibility? And more importantly, did she commit the act of spreading fake news?
We need to first understand the meanings of terms that are often mentioned nowadays, such as “fake news,” to answer. The key terms when it comes to this kind of issue are misinformation, disinformation, malinformation, and of course, fake news.
Misinformation refers to inaccurate information disseminated without the intention to deceive, whereas disinformation involves the intentional distribution of false information aimed at misleading public perception. Malinformation is genuine, factual information that is used in a harmful, misleading, or damaging way. Unlike misinformation and disinformation, malinformation is rooted in truth, but weaponized. Fake news represents a form of disinformation designed to mimic a news report, yet it lacks any factual foundation.
So, was what she posted fake news? The specific post cited was about the “mass resignation” of police and military personnel that she wrote on her social media. “May mga police at military daw na nagre-resign kasi hindi na daw nila kaya. Marami daw. They cannot be part of this government daw.” She explained that she included the qualifier “daw” to make it clear that this was hearsay or circulating sentiment online, particularly on TikTok, where videos of supposed uniformed personnel expressing dissatisfaction were shared. They were the basis of her impression.
But when pressed if she verified her claim with any official source, she admitted she did not. In fact, a ranking PNP official confirmed during the hearing that no mass resignations occurred after ex-President Rodrigo Duterte’s arrest, and that such rumors were false.
Was it fake news then? Not quite. At least not by textbook definition. Her post, while misleading and arguably irresponsible given her following, wasn’t framed as a news report. It was presented as a social media opinion post and made an effort (however weak) to signal doubt by using the word “daw,” with an appeal for them not to resign, if the rumors were true.
In short her post fits more squarely into the category of misinformation—shared without intent to deceive but with feeble grounds. That said, the consequences are not any less serious, especially when public trust, institutional stability, or national security may be affected.
During the hearing, she argued that she writes as a private citizen and doesn’t see herself as an influencer. But her influence is not about self-identification; it’s about impact. With her tens of thousands of readers per post, her voice carries weight.
She claimed to adhere to basic principles of truth-telling and verification, but this demonstrates a blurring of roles: journalists vs. opinionated private citizens. The House panel questioned whether one can invoke journalistic credibility when convenient, and deny accountability when not.
Really, what this hearing was about is reflecting the larger tensions we all now face in an algorithm-driven information age. She may not have meant to deceive, but misinformation can still cause harm. This means that even if information is presented as a secondhand (indicated by the word “daw” meaning “allegedly”), a post that spreads rapidly online can still substantially influence how people feel and how they respond.
The “illusion of truth effect,” the idea that repeated statements, even false, begin to feel true, was referenced in the hearing. Kasi natu-turbocharge sa social media. A user with over 100,000 impressions per post contributes to the effect, whether they acknowledge it or not.
Her repeated use of “daw” was presented as a disclaimer. But lawmakers challenged whether that absolved her of responsibility, especially when readers could still interpret the statement as fact. She admitted that she never verified the claim through official sources.
They also accused her of selectively invoking her journalistic background. To maintain her credibility, she insisted on her training, but she also said that her personal page shouldn’t be subjected to journalistic standards. This contradiction is jarring. It’s a delicate line to walk. If you invoke your journalistic training to defend your credibility, it naturally raises the expectation that your conduct (even on your social media) should reflect journalistic principles, such as accuracy, fairness, and responsibility.
When she claimed exemption from these standards on the basis that it’s her personal page, the foundation she stood on weakened significantly. Many spectators were concerned about the inconsistency, for good reason. There is no toggle for journalistic credibility. It is important to be prepared to continuously and universally respect it if you want to rely on it.
Besides her, the hearing revealed a more important issue: influencers who spread inflammatory or unsubstantiated material without facing institutional repercussions. They are not subject to professional codes or editorial regulations as conventional media are. The absence of institutional accountability for influencers who spread harmful content is a serious problem. While freedom of speech is important, it shouldn’t come at the expense of the safety of the people and informed discourse.
In light of national security concerns, lawmakers debated whether roles such as Chu’s may have legal ramifications. Some even suggested that social media influencers should be held to the same standards as broadcasters with licenses.
Me thinks that in an age where influencers can shape public opinion as powerfully as traditional media, it’s reasonable to explore legal accountability. If their content reaches millions and impacts national security, public safety, or elections, then perhaps some regulatory standards, though not necessarily the same as broadcasters, are warranted.
The “I just write” was one of the most telling phrases she repeatedly said during the hearing. I mean, it sounds harmless on the surface—a shrug of whatever artistic expression. But in the context of her reach and profession, it’s insincere. Writing, particularly in public, is never just writing. It shapes perception, it provokes emotion, it can mislead rather than inspire.
These days, when writing becomes viral, it becomes consequential. Coming from someone who claims she’s in journalism, this defense flattens the difference between emotional purge and communication, between opinion and influence.
She did not peddle fake news by legal or journalistic standards. But she contributed (a lot) to misinformation. That’s probably less sensational, but no less important. The takeaway isn’t silence voices like hers, but raise the standard of digital discourse. Free speech includes the right to post your thoughts (What’s on your mind?). However, responsibility follows when you’re loud enough to make thousands believe your misinformation. Even if it starts and ends with just one word—”daw.”
