When the Camera Rolls Before Compassion

Welcome to Root Access – a new WalasTech section where I share insights on how tech impacts Filipinos. Here, we tackle pressing issues, trends, and topics that challenge the norm in tech, culture, and society. Root Access unpacks complex topics with an unfiltered approach. New posts are published on Mondays starting May.

A 5-year-old girl and a 29-year-old man lost their lives after an SUV suddenly surged into the departure ramp of NAIA Terminal 1 on May 4. They were just there to say goodbye to a loved one. Within minutes of the crash, videos were already circulating on Facebook, TikTok, and group chats. Some had captions with crying and broken heart emojis. Others slapped on music or dramatic transitions. One even used a clickbait title to farm reactions and shares.

This tragedy isn’t just about a fatal accident. It exposes a growing problem: our instinct to reach for our phones not to call for help, but to capture and post, hoping for attention or revenue. In a time when content creation has become a livelihood, or at least a side hustle, the line between documentation and exploitation is increasingly blurred.

We live in an era where everything is filmed, not necessarily to inform, but to feed the machine, where engagement is the real currency. The more dramatic or disturbing the video, the more likes, shares, comments, and potential payout. And when tragedy strikes, the rush to be the first to post overrides the basic decency of checking if someone needs help.

Worse, some creators now build entire identities around this pattern: filming strangers during breakdowns, trailing ambulances, or staging fake confrontations. All in the name of virality. There’s no pause to ask: “Is this right?” or “Is this my story to tell?”

In the Philippines, the laws around public filming are vague and underdeveloped. Legally, there’s no general prohibition against taking videos in public places, especially if the subject has no reasonable expectation of privacy. But once that content is uploaded online, particularly if it shows identifiable people in distress or grief. It crosses into more complex territory involving data privacy, cyber libel, and even moral rights.

The Data Privacy Act of 2012 protects personal information, but it largely focuses on institutions, not individual content creators. The Anti-Photo and Video Voyeurism Act of 2009 prohibits the publication of private recordings, but only in specific contexts like sexual content. And while cyber libel can apply to defamatory posts, it doesn’t address the ethical gray zone of exploiting tragedy for clicks.

What we’re left with is a cultural loophole. People think: “If it’s in public, I can post it.” And technically, they’re not wrong. But just because something is legal doesn’t mean it’s ethical or humane.

In the case of the NAIA crash, some bystanders did help. But there were just as many pointing their phones at the scene. No trigger warnings, no consent, just content. The victims had families. They were not characters in someone’s algorithm chase.

We need to start asking harder questions: When does documentation become exploitation? Are we helping or harming when we post? What kind of content ecosystem are we building if death becomes just another trending topic?

Maybe it’s time lawmakers catch up. Maybe it’s time platforms become stricter. But more urgently, maybe it’s time people look at themselves and ask: Is your content worth more than someone’s dignity?

When compassion loses to content, something in us as a society unravels.