The Filipino Paradox: Prosperity on Paper, Poverty in the Pockets

By Rosette Correa

Going back to Manila is always an interesting trip. Step into any major Philippine city on a weekend and you might think you’ve landed in a nation overflowing with wealth. The roads are choked with cars—often brand-new SUVs and sedans. Shopping malls rise like cathedrals of consumption, each packed to capacity with diners enjoying restaurant meals that cost a day’s wages for many workers. Expressways crisscross the city, connecting burgeoning subdivisions filled with homes whose price tags are far beyond the reach of the average Filipino. I thought I was in the bustling cosmopolitan of post-apocalyptic Blade Runner.

And yet, scratch beneath this glossy surface and you will find a troubling paradox. The legal daily minimum wage in many regions hovers around ₱600—or about $14 CAD—barely enough to cover basic daily needs. Private hospital nurses, hailed as heroes during the pandemic, often earn less than their overseas counterparts make in a single day. Educators, engineers, accountants, architects—professionals who drive the intellectual and structural development of the nation—are paid salaries that, in many cases, do not match the cost of living.

So, how does a country where a large share of the population earns subsistence-level wages still sustain an economy that looks, at least on the surface, affluent?

Part of the answer lies in the billions of pesos sent home by Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) each year. These remittances, totaling over $30 billion annually, pump life into the local economy, funding homes, cars, tuition, and small businesses. Without them, the façade of prosperity would likely crack quickly.

Another factor is credit. The rise of consumer financing—zero down payment cars, “buy now, pay later” schemes for gadgets, installment payments for appliances—has allowed many Filipinos to acquire goods and lifestyles far beyond their immediate means. While this fuels economic activity, it also fosters debt dependency and financial vulnerability. Driving through Manila roads was like a challenging video game, where hitting the car next to you was fair game. 

Then there’s the informal economy, a vast and often invisible network of unreported earnings—from side hustles and small businesses to cash-based transactions—that supplements official wages. It allows many to survive and even appear to thrive despite paltry official incomes.

But the deeper problem is systemic. Decades of governance marred by corruption have kept wages stagnant, labor rights weak, and wealth concentrated in the hands of a few. Infrastructure projects, while impressive, often benefit the already affluent first—developers, contractors, and political allies—while the working poor struggle with rising living costs and little government protection. The country’s economic growth has been real, but it has not been equitable. On the surface, walking in BGC or in the malls seems that everyone can afford a 500 peso meal, but that amounts to one’s daily wage, so it hardly counts as a leisure or pleasure expense.

This paradox cannot last forever. An economy that grows while leaving the majority behind will eventually strain under its own inequalities. The Philippines must address wage stagnation, strengthen labor protections, and ensure that economic gains translate into tangible improvements for all citizens—not just for those with access to foreign earnings or political connections.

For now, the malls will stay full, the roads will stay clogged, and the subdivisions will keep rising. But the question remains: when the bill for this borrowed prosperity finally comes due, who will be left holding it?