ARE we too smart for our own good? Women (and men) of a certain age like to believe that experience is on their side. They’ve seen it all—been there, done that. Yet who wants to grow old as a jaded cynic, seeing only the worst in others, perpetually sniffing out the ulterior motive, discerning the hidden agenda in what might, after all, be a mundanely innocuous or well-intended human interaction, perhaps even a budding friendship?
US statistics (none are available for the Philippines specifically) do show that seniors are more likely to fall for online scams, identity theft, and other frauds. We Filipinos thrive on social media, and are inextricably interconnected through Facebook and our cellphones. We are so much more exposed to risks of fraud by bad actors getting our personal information to exploit us financially, through smishing (text messages), or vishing (phone calls).
Maybe it’s the all-too-human yearning for connection that makes seniors more vulnerable overall. Many are retired or widowed, and dependent upon our busy working offspring to get around. To this day, the theory for why the classic budol-budol works its nefarious magic is that this is some form of hypnosis perpetrated face-to-face, as happened to Mrs. S.
She was a retired private school principal of presumably above average intelligence, a middle-aged widow, living with her son and his wife, who were both busy professionals. After 40 years of professionally dealing with the daily tumult of other people’s children, Mrs. S was not inclined to play yaya to her apo. Besides, there was adequate household help to look after the two young grandchildren. She preferred the conviviality of her nearby evangelical church to any homegrown apostolate. There was bible study, monthly birthday celebrations, and even occasional out-of-town forays for evangelizing to the tepid or to the lukewarm Christians-in-name-only, who had still to realize that Jesus was their personal Lord and Savior. “Church planting,” their pastor cheerily proclaimed it, because they were called on to be not just fishers for souls, but spiritual farmers as well.
Thus the kasambahay did not consider anything amiss when, at the end of an afternoon spent in the air-conditioned fastness of the Gateway Cinema with her church friends, for the weekly Quezon City OSCA free movie Monday, Mrs. S returned to their townhouse with another elderly woman in tow. The kasambahay later told Mrs. S’ son and his wife that the two had gone straight into Mrs. S’ bedroom and had emerged over a half hour later, dragging a wheeled suitcase. Mrs. S also had a tote bag which, her son later realized, was the one where his mother kept all her banking and real property documents.
Mrs. S had always been jealously protective of her independence, so it was not unusual for her to take off without telling anybody where she was headed. They assumed she was on another church planting expedition or spiritual retreat. The wheeled suitcase meant she might be gone for a few days, and so when she returned on Friday morning, they were not surprised and did not pry.
It was only days later, when her son had business in the bank himself, and the manager asked whether he or his mother might be interested in a different product for the time deposits Mrs. S had pre-terminated, that he realized what she had done.
The gap in Mrs. S’ memory, of what had happened in the few days she had been gone, embarrassed her. She didn’t want to talk about it
Mrs. S did not have the cash she had withdrawn, nor could she name her mysterious lady companion. The bank CCTV footage was inconclusive. The gap in her memory, of what had happened in the few days she had been gone, embarrassed her. She didn’t want to talk about it. Inquiries in the church with the pastor and her friends proved futile. Her churchmates who had been at Gateway Cinema with her that Monday didn’t even remember what movie they had watched, or if Mrs. S had left with anyone. Most of them were simply there to nap in air-conditioned comfort.
Mrs. S refused to undergo a medical exam to see if she had been drugged. Besides, this happened over a week ago, and any drugs would have been flushed out of her system. This was the stuff one read about in tabloids or saw on the nightly news, and she wanted no part of it. At least, they were not too late to get their real property titles declared lost, and to have these re-issued so that they could not be transferred or sold.
From then on, one of the kasambahay was charged with chaperoning Mrs. S whenever she went out. This actually expanded her horizons beyond the tricycle or jeep routes near their townhouse. Since she had a sturdy young arm to lean on, she could join the crowds jostling to get into the MRT or LRT. She could foray into Divisoria as she had in her younger years, or if she was feeling sosyal, stroll through the gardens of Greenbelt Makati. Her freedom, with its limits and conditions, had come at a hefty price. But she had already paid, so she might as well get whatever fun she could out of it.
Unlike Mrs. S, I was a vishing victim, so I did not actually meet the perpetrator face-to-face. Alias “Mika Chua” called me a month or so after I had been stricken with COVID. She claimed to be an officer of my regular bank, and even knew that I had just had my credit card replaced and that I had picked this up at X branch. Was it an inside job? My bank never investigated, as far as I know, but Mika Chua even knew my card’s last two digits.
How that came about is another story. Suffice it to say that danger does lurk everywhere.
Anyway, Mika Chua further bolstered her credibility by telling me that this replacement card was due to expire in three months. I had to check and what do you know, she was right. She then told me to expect the free delivery of another card which would expire in five years. It didn’t occur to me then, but credit cards are always delivered for free, so it’s not like she was doing me favor as she made it out to be.
Then Mika Chua advised me that all those hard-won rewards on my soon-to-expire replacement card had to be monetized through “sponsorships” by Grab or Food Panda and the like, as these points would not carry over to my soon-to-be-delivered five-year card, but that these amounts charged to Grab or Food Panda would somehow be deducted from my credit card balance, which was due in four days. I have no idea how Grab or Food Panda work, but got excited at the prospect of minimizing the credit card payment.
Then began a strenuous back and forth with Mika Chua calling me every half hour or so, to ask me for the OTP to the succession of Grab and Food Panda charges that began appearing on my phone. Through my post-COVID fog, I became engrossed in the challenge to exercise my short-term memory by repeating the six-digit OTP to her after just one brief glance, since I couldn’t read this off my phone while we were talking. I ignored the admonition to “NEVER SHARE YOUR OTP.” When your see something that often, it becomes innocuous, unreal, no longer a serious warning.
Mika Chua remained evasive, though, when I repeatedly asked her how much had been deducted from my credit card payment balance based upon all those “sponsored” transactions.
I ignored the admonition to ‘NEVER SHARE YOUR OTP.’ When your see something that often, it becomes innocuous, unreal, no longer a serious warning
Fortunately, I had to go out of town that weekend, and if Mika Chua called, she didn’t get through. I was grateful for our patchy cellphone service for this. Early Monday morning, I phoned my bank’s hotline to ask how much had been wiped off by all those sponsorship calls from what was due on my credit card the next day. The phone banker gently told me I’d been scammed. I still had to pay the full amount due. He immediately blocked my card and tried to reverse whatever charges he could.
Alias Mika Chua had conned me with my help, for several tens of thousands. That hurt but I could survive it.
Most of the charges were for food. If Mika Chua was a syndicated scammer operating out of a POGO hub, they must be one hungry bunch. Were they taking the food home to their children, perhaps? They obviously had no qualms about feeding these innocents from ill-gotten gains. Come to think of it, our obscenely prosperous political dynasties and government officials have proven for generations the emptiness of that pamahiin na hindi nila papakainin ng nakaw ang kanilang mga anak (they would not feed their children with stolen money).
The other charges were for clothes and shoes—not from High Street, but from Baclaran. I pictured Mika Chua as a young woman, already twisted and hardened by a lifetime of envious relative deprivation: Why shouldn’t she have some of what those on top, or at least yung mga naka-angat, are enjoying? Of course, those at the very top, i.e., the powerful politicos, taipans, and moneyed celebs, are out of her reach, but those like myself in the modest middle are not.
We are in the in-between, living from paycheck to paycheck, or on our retirement savings like Mrs. S, existing in a precarity of stability. We are fair game to the Mika Chuas of this world.
In my anger and shame at how I’d been had, I was initially galvanized to seek justice. And so I hied off to the PNP Anti-Cyber Crime Office in Camp Crame, where finding a parking spot within the compound or a comfortable walking distance from the office you’re visiting is a near impossibility. If it was any comfort, I was far from being alone. The reception area teemed with complainants who ran the gamut of gullibility, from licensed MDs to moonlighting housewives.
After making an affidavit with a detailed narrative of what I’d been through, submitting printouts of the phone logs of Mika Chua’s calls to me and the screenshots of those OTP transactions, the no-nonsense police corporal told me that court hearings would be next.
Then it hit me. I would be spending more in time and money, just to pursue this case against alias Mika Chua than what she had stolen from me. The opportunity costs of getting justice were just too great, and I would never even get my money back. What are the chances of the real Mika Chua, whoever she might actually be, ever getting apprehended, tried, convicted, and punished?
And so I filed another affidavit explaining why I was no longer interested in pursuing this case against alias Mika Chua under Republic Act No.. 10175 (An Act Defining Cybercrime, Providing For The Prevention, Investigation, Suppression, And The Imposition Of Penalties Therefore And For Other Purposes), a.k.a. The Cybercrime Prevention Act of 2012.
Was I enabling scammers like her to keep on posting pictures of the food and the clothes that they had stolen, on their FB and Instagram accounts? They are strictly small time. Now if they got into politics…
