The revenue district office in Calamba City was bustling with taxpayers at seven o’clock in the morning. More people were arriving, clutching folders and indicating their serious business. The sun was already shining, intensifying the heat and the arguments of those waiting for their turn to enter. The entrance ticket to the building was a TIN verification slip. Everyone had to go through general admission, except for a few exceptions like senior citizens, pregnant women, and nuns. They were granted access to the fast lane on the second floor, while the rest of us waited in the lobby, which was becoming increasingly crowded. It was a typical Monday.
The guard stood at the door, repeatedly informing incoming clients that the system was offline. His words seemed to encourage them to leave and come back later. Personally, I wasn’t bothered, and neither were the other contractual workers who were here to renew their registration and avoid penalties. There was something about the Bureau of Internal Revenue (BIR) that made me wish I possessed more virtuous qualities. Every aspect of being here tested my patience and sanity. Each time someone in line grew frustrated and ready to snap at the guard, I had to suppress my own frustration. I knew I could easily be that person, but not today. I had to complete my transaction, otherwise, I could end up in jail. It was all because of six years of unresolved accounts that had unknowingly accumulated.
Let me explain. In 2016, I landed my first job as a research assistant at a university. Freshly graduated, I quickly realized that if you don’t secure a full scholarship, pursuing higher education can leave you financially strapped. That was certainly true in my case. So, I eagerly accepted the employment offer from my professor, obtained a TIN, signed a five-month job contract, noted down the nine-digit TIN on the contract, and started working at 8 o’clock the following day. The job was decent, although the salary was often delayed. But with delayed salaries came delayed tax filings. I accumulated penalty after penalty, with a significant portion of my earnings going straight to taxes. That’s when I decided to find a regular job in a private company that would handle my taxes and pay me on time. Fortunately, I succeeded in securing one. However, there was a hitch. In my enthusiasm to start my new job in a different city, I failed to realize that my previous registration had not been closed. I had no knowledge of how tax compliance worked, and my five years in college had not prepared me for this aspect of adulthood. The revenue district office had never informed me of my outstanding registration either. It took six years for me to become aware that I could face penalties for something I was completely oblivious to. The realization was horrifying. I didn’t want to end up in jail at the age of 28. I had never committed any serious crimes or engaged in illicit activities. But now, due to my unintentional tax noncompliance, I felt as though I had set fire to my future, watching it crumble to ashes. Even my mother’s promise to visit me in jail did nothing to comfort me.
After nights of wallowing in self-pity and overthinking, mustering up every ounce of courage I had, I found myself at the revenue district office that Monday morning, prepared to pay the required amount to resolve my accounts. However, what I thought would be a quick transaction turned into a four-day ordeal. I had to navigate four floors, obtaining signatures and approvals from different sections. I made four trips to the bank to pay my penalties. Not to mention the countless forms I had to complete and the many trips to the photocopier. At that time, the number four felt like a cursed number, especially that one afternoon when I had to sprint 400 meters to reach the bank by 4 p.m., only to be stopped by the security guard at the closed door. He informed me that they were already closed and offline. I pleaded, on the verge of giving up. But his response was firm. I retreated to a corner and broke down in tears. I leaned against a white wall in the empty parking lot, seeking solace in the only comfort I could find. Eventually, the security guard approached me and asked if I was alright. I forced a smile and said yes, even though my yes was a feeble attempt to mask my exhaustion and financial instability. He advised me to come early the next day to complete my bank transactions. I agreed, but my defeated expression gave away my true feelings. I looked down at my worn-out sneakers, soles dangling and falling apart. The state bureaucracy had once again failed me, leaving me with nothing but a pair of broken shoes.
I called my mother to share my misadventures with her. She laughed on the other end of the line, telling me to cheer up. Despite her attempts to uplift my spirits, I couldn’t help but cry a little more. By Thursday, I had paid all my penalties at the revenue district office. Thankfully, I hadn’t been thrown in jail. However, as I drove home and encountered a huge public advisory sign flashing by the roadside, the words “This is where your taxes go” taunted me. I smirked, trying to brush off the thought that my hard-earned tax money might just be squandered on unnecessary projects or inefficient government processes.
Note: Christele Jao Amoyan, aged 28, is currently unemployed. She recognized that having this essay published would earn her a thousand pesos, but she knew that 10 percent of it would still be deducted as taxes.
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
