A sleek black McLaren sits in the driveway, its glossy finish gleaming in the tropical sun. Nearby, a helicopter rests on a private landing pad, its blades perfectly still, waiting for its next flight. All of this nestled in a quiet provincial town. But this isn’t the holiday home of a billionaire escaping city life – it’s the estate of the town mayor. With this kind of luxury, people reasoned, she has to be guilty of something… right?
Alice Guo, mayor of Bamban, Tarlac, has become the face of a scandal that has captivated the Philippines. For months, she has been accused not only of unexplained wealth and ties to Philippine Offshore Gaming Operators (POGOs) but also of something far more sinister: being a Chinese spy. For many Filipinos, this isn’t just a theory – it’s a conclusion they’ve already drawn.
The belief that Guo is a spy has spread like wildfire, dominating headlines, Senate hearings, and social media feeds. In a country increasingly wary of Chinese influence, her case feels like a validation of people’s deepest fears about foreign interference, and betrayal at the highest levels of power. But why are so many people convinced of her guilt? And how did this narrative take hold so completely, even in the absence of concrete evidence?
Guo’s story isn’t just about her – it’s about us. High-profile scandals like this one don’t just reflect the actions of the accused. They reveal the biases, media narratives, and anxieties that shape how we interpret events.
A scandal that captured a nation
Alice Guo’s rise to infamy began with a Senate inquiry into Philippine Offshore Gaming Operators (POGOs). These Chinese-run online gambling businesses, which cater to international clients, have long been controversial in the Philippines. They are associated with illegal activities, including tax evasion, money laundering, and human trafficking, and are widely viewed as symbols of Chinese economic encroachment in the country.
Guo’s name surfaced during the inquiry because several POGO operations were based in Bamban, Tarlac, where she served as mayor. While her exact involvement with these businesses remains unclear, her connection to the jurisdiction where they operated quickly drew scrutiny. The investigation into POGOs soon expanded to questions about Guo’s personal wealth. Reports revealed that she owned a McLaren sports car and a helicopter – luxuries rarely associated with a mayor of a quiet, agricultural town where many residents live modestly. Guo admitted to owning the helicopter, which she claimed had been sold to a British company, but denied owning the luxury car, explaining it was loaned to her for a car show.
From there, the allegations snowballed. Guo faced accusations of falsifying documents to obscure her financial dealings and, more sensationally, of being a Chinese spy working to infiltrate Philippine politics. While the espionage claims lacked concrete evidence, they tapped into growing anxieties about Chinese influence in the region. For years, tensions between the Philippines and China have simmered over territorial disputes in the West Philippine Sea, where China’s aggressive expansionism – including constructing artificial islands and claiming vast swathes of Philippine-owned waters – has drawn widespread condemnation.
The hearings took a dramatic turn when Senator Risa Hontiveros, who initially focused on Guo’s ties to POGOs, pivoted to the espionage allegations. “I’m not yet prepared to conclude that she is not involved, or that the people associated with her are not involved in espionage”, Hontiveros stated during a Senate session, amplifying the narrative of Guo as a potential Chinese agent. Her comments, combined with sharp questioning, leveraged public anxieties about foreign interference. Clips of Hontiveros grilling Guo on her alleged ties to Chinese intelligence went viral on social media, fuelling debates and cementing Guo’s image as a central figure in the nation’s growing concerns over corruption and sovereignty.
These developments resonated with a public already wary of Chinese influence. The combination of Guo’s connection to POGOs, her unexplained wealth, and the spy allegations turned her into a lightning rod for frustrations over sovereignty and corruption. Many Filipinos saw her case as emblematic of larger fears about foreign interference and economic exploitation, particularly in light of ongoing tensions with China.
But why did the narrative of Guo as a spy take hold so quickly, even in the absence of concrete evidence? The answer lies not just in Guo’s actions but in the broader social and political environment that shapes public opinion in the Philippines.
Local perceptions of the scandal
For university students Zak and Ellysse, the Alice Guo scandal seemed to come from all directions. It wasn’t just in the news, it was in the air they breathed, the conversations they overheard, and even the public spaces they navigated.
Even before the Alice Guo story broke, fears of China infringing on the Philippines’ sovereignty and infiltrating society were already deeply ingrained. “There were billboards around the metro about the West Philippine Sea being ours”, Zak recalled, describing how the message of standing firm against Chinese encroachment was a regular part of his environment. Discussions on campus were equally charged. Professors and peers alike were vocal about the possibility of sleeper agents infiltrating society. “We don’t know where they are. We don’t know who they are. But there are some agents already in our campus” Zak remembered being told, a warning that added urgency to the unfolding scandal.
This backdrop of fear and suspicion gave the Alice Guo story immediate momentum. The narrative seemed to validate existing anxieties about foreign interference, which had been simmering for years. When news of Guo’s unexplained wealth, ties to POGOs, and alleged espionage surfaced, it felt like a natural extension of those fears. “Everyone was talking about it.” Zak said, recalling how quickly the story took hold. “It was inescapable.”
Ellysse encountered the story through television news and through everyday conversations with people. “Discovering this actually was just, like, everyone was really talking about it.” she recalled. The clips of Guo’s luxurious lifestyle only seemed to confirm her worst fears about corruption and excess in politics. “I found it outrageous that she could have all that and is just a mayor?” she said.
Social media, too, was flooded with posts dissecting Senate hearings and amplifying soundbites, while everyday conversations wove Guo into broader narratives about sovereignty, corruption, and betrayal. Zak observed how pervasive the discussions became, even among people who rarely engaged with politics. “You’d see people quoting the Senate hearings on the street”, Ellysse added. “It became this phenomenon where even those who never cared about politics before were suddenly engaged.”
The Alice Guo scandal wasn’t just another headline – it was seen a puzzle whose pieces, once laid out, seemed to perfectly fit the narrative that Guo was a spy. For Ellysse, it felt both logical and inevitable. “The spy thing, though, came”, she recalled. “I feel like I was talking about it with my family. It didn’t go over the grapevine or whatever.” What began as a passing thought – almost a joke – started to grow in significance. “It’s just a joke that she’s a spy. Because she’s a spy”, she said with a laugh, before explaining how the narrative began to settle into place. “The more you kind of sit there with the thought, the more you’re like, what if she really is?”
From there, the narrative felt unstoppable. Every new detail that emerged seemed to confirm the theory. There were supposed inconsistencies with Guo’s birth certificate. She was even said to struggle with the local language. “It’s like she was taught to speak it”, Ellysse said about Guo’s fluency. “And it all was making sense under the spy narrative.”
But why did this narrative feel so right to Ellysse? Part of it was psychological. “When you’re given mysterious variables, you kind of want to make sense of it”, she said. “So if you have a narrative that kind of semi-fits the data, you just immediately accept it for what it is because it fits in your brain.” The spy narrative didn’t just fit the data – it aligned with a broader worldview she already held. “I had a precondition already, thinking that there are a lot of Chinese soft influences in Filipino governance”, she explained, “I’ve read so many political articles about China’s soft power over the Philippines, spreading misinformation, swaying political decisions – it’s too common. It’s a known fact to me. I feel like some people don’t know that.”
Still, Ellysse admitted that media played an overwhelming role in shaping her stance. “I’d have to say that the media played, like, a hundred percent influence over my decision”, she acknowledged. “I don’t think I came up with a hypothesis myself and affirmed it through media. I think media gave me the hypothesis, and I just accepted it for what it was.”
The sheer ubiquity of the story also contributed to its impact. “The issue was so big”, she said, “You’ve got people who’ve never even seen a Senate hearing in their life quoting it on the street daily.” From television to social media to conversations with friends and family, the narrative became unavoidable. “It was everywhere”, she emphasised. “The pieces all made sense to me, and when something feels that right, it’s hard not to believe it.”
When the pieces don’t add up
Zak, too, encountered the story amid the backdrop of growing tension between the Philippines and China. But for Zak, the pieces didn’t quite fit. “If the Chinese really wanted their agent to be in the Philippines, they would have made it more subtle.” Zak said. To him, Guo’s opulence – the McLaren, the helicopter, the high-profile political career – felt like the opposite of what a covert operative would have. “Her life is way too flashy. It’s not deep-state enough”, he explained, “I’m open to the idea of her being a criminal, but as for being a spy? That doesn’t add up to me.”
Still, skepticism didn’t come easily. “When something is perceived as evil, it’s hard for me to go out of my way to defend it.” Zak admitted. Speaking up against a widely accepted narrative felt uncomfortable, even risky. “You don’t want to be the person standing up for someone everyone else has already judged guilty”, he said. Even as he questioned the narrative, he found it difficult to fully push back.
Zak wasn’t surprised that the spy story resonated, however. Allegations about her falsified birth certificate and foreign roots created a narrative that felt both plausible and timely: “When you link a Chinese national who has become mayor to offshore gambling tied to Chinese entities, it’s easy for people to connect those dots”, Zak explained.
But Zak also worried about what happens when people jump to conclusions without evidence. “Assumption can get people killed.” he said, pointing to the harm caused by unchecked narratives. Reflecting on Guo’s case, he drew a comparison to Senator Leila de Lima, who was accused of corruption and drug links, only for later evidence to call those allegations into question. “I’m reminded of how quick people were to condemn her”, Zak said. For him, the danger wasn’t just in believing Guo’s guilt – it was in how easily public opinion could ruin a person before the full truth emerged.
How rumours take hold
Joao Atienza, a former Media and Information Literacy teacher, told me that the Alice Guo scandal is a textbook example of how narratives take root and flourish. When a narrative aligns with deeply held worldviews – such as fears of Chinese influence in the Philippines – it often takes on a life of its own, regardless of the evidence.
“Headlines are horrible for how they polarise people”, he explained. “They tend to oversimplify, misinform, or amplify sensational angles. It could be something like ‘Risa Hontiveros asks Alice Guo if she’s a spy.’ And then what eventually people will take from that that she is a spy.” According to Joao, the lack of critical digging by the media, combined with its reliance on Senate hearings, allowed the spy narrative to dominate, filling in the gaps for a public already inclined to distrust Chinese nationals.
On top of that, for many Filipinos, the backdrop of tensions over the West Philippine Sea and fears of Chinese soft power provided fertile ground for Guo’s story to be seen as part of a larger pattern. “It’s convenient timing”, he noted, “and when you add the fact that she’s a Chinese national, everyone’s like, ‘Oh, yeah, that’s definitely a spy.’”
What makes these narratives even harder to challenge, is the role of social media algorithms in amplifying outrage and sensationalism. “The stuff that is the most anger-inducing are the things that are shared”, Joao told me. Social media platforms reward engagement through the worst and most polarising takes, and the repetition of these ideas – whether true or not – eventually legitimises them. “If enough people say it, it becomes what people perceive as reality”, he said.
But what happens when someone’s worldview is challenged? Joao argued that this is one of the hardest things to overcome. “People don’t like being told that they’re wrong”, he said. “It’s not just about pride – it’s about the discomfort of questioning beliefs that form the foundation of how we see the world. It’s like a house of cards. If one thing topples, everything feels unstable.”
How can we truly challenge preconceptions, then? “People don’t engage with ideas; people engage with people”, he told me, “If you really want to change somebody’s mind, you don’t straight up tell them they’re wrong with facts and logic. You make sure they feel like a person, and you make sure they feel like you’re a person.” For Joao, skepticism isn’t about confrontation but about reflection – putting oneself in someone else’s shoes and examining how their background and experiences shape their views.
Ultimately, for Joao, the Guo case isn’t just about corruption or espionage – it’s about what it reveals about society. “We’re uncomfortable living in shades of grey”, he said. “We feel like there should be a right answer but, sometimes, the truth is we don’t know.”
The story of Alice Guo is, in many ways, more about us than it is about her. Zak’s skepticism, Ellysse’s conviction, and Joao’s reasoning all illustrate that the narratives we believe are shaped not just by facts, but by the stories we want – or need – to make sense of the world.
And perhaps the most important takeaway from this scandal isn’t about Alice Guo’s guilt or innocence. It’s about how easily we fill in the blanks when given just enough information to confirm our fears. In a world of fast-moving headlines and instant opinions, sometimes the hardest – and most radical – thing to do is to admit: we don’t know.
