Camille Villar: You Want Our Vote? Fix PrimeWater First

I never thought I’d write a blog like this.
Not because I’m afraid to speak, but because I wish I didn’t have to.

In Cabanatuan, mornings used to be simple. You wake up, stretch, maybe boil water for coffee, and turn the faucet on to wash your face. These days, you turn the knob and wait—sometimes minutes, sometimes longer—hoping for a steady stream. What comes out is water laced with minerals, barely enough pressure to rinse a cup, and a silent frustration you carry into the rest of your day.

This is what living under Primewater feels like.

And I know we’re not the only ones.

So I’m writing this, not just as a resident, but as a Filipino. To the Villar family—Manny, Cynthia, Paolo, and yes, Camille—who control Primewater and, by extension, the water that reaches homes like mine across the country. You’re not just businesspeople. Some of you are lawmakers. One of you wants to be a senator.

If you can’t fix the very service your own company provides, how can we trust you to fix what’s broken in this country?

Maybe the quick answer is, “I’m running for Senate, not managing utilities.”
But that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?

You’re in power. You’re in business. You’re everywhere.
And yet, we’re still left here, twisting our faucets in hope.

A Business Built on Our Needs

Water isn't a luxury. It’s not a treat. It’s not something we ask for with crossed fingers like ayuda.
It’s a necessity—daily, non-negotiable.

So when your company took over the water system here in Cabanatuan, we weren’t expecting miracles. We weren’t asking for perks or gimmicks. Just the basics: clear water, consistent flow, and billing that makes sense. That’s it.

But Primewater failed at that. And the worst part? It wasn’t just here.

You expanded aggressively, through Joint Venture Agreements (JVAs) with local water districts—more than 100 water systems across the country now operate under your name (Manila Bulletin). That’s a fifth of all public water districts, taken from the hands of government and turned into a private business run by billionaires.

We didn’t choose you.
You arrived in our cities through contracts, not public trust.

This isn't just another family business like real estate or retail. Water is different. You’re not selling homes or furniture. You’re managing a resource that every household depends on to live. It should come with more responsibility—not just revenue.

So here’s the question:
Do you ever wonder what it’s like to live under the services you own?

Because if you did, we wouldn’t still be talking about this.

When Water Wounds: How Primewater’s Calcium-Rich Supply Eats Through Pipes, Heaters, and Sinks

It’s not the kind of damage you see right away.
But give it a few weeks, and your sink starts to lose its shine. Faucets grow a white crust. The water heater, once reliable, starts coughing. And the showerhead? It sprays in every direction—except where it should.

That’s what we deal with in Cabanatuan.

The water here isn’t brown like in Bacolod or murky like in Camarines Norte. It’s clear—until you live with it long enough to realize it’s too clear. Rich with minerals. Heavy with calcium. Quietly destructive.

It eats through fixtures like termites through wood. Tiles stain. Pipes narrow. You start to notice the pressure weakening even more than usual. You flush, and the tank takes forever to fill. You turn on the shower, and the trickle feels more like a sigh.

The real damage, though, hides inside.

Inside the pipes, calcification builds up, forming a chalky wall that suffocates water flow. You can't just scrub this away. It takes hydrochloric acid, or commercial products like CLR (Calcium, Lime, Rust remover)—if you can even find them. And even then, one wrong move and you're damaging the pipes more than the calcium does.

We adjust, of course. We always do.

We switch to buckets when the heater stops working. Replace filters faster than we should. Clean faucets weekly with vinegar just to keep them from turning white.

We pay to undo damage the water itself caused—and that feels wrong.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t regular wear and tear.
It’s what happens when a water provider delivers minerals first, pressure second, and service last.

And the worst part? I thought it was just us.
Until I saw my brother’s posts from Daraga, Albay.
Until I read what people are saying in Bacolod, Cavite, Laguna.

This isn’t a coincidence.
It’s a pattern.

The Bigger Picture – It’s Not Just Us

You know something’s broken when your brother has to ask for water—not from a faucet, but from Facebook.

He posted publicly, tagging Primewater, practically begging them to restore even just a trickle. He wasn’t alone. Scroll through the posts and you’ll find the same story: homes without water for days, parents collecting rain in buckets, people adjusting their lives around unpredictable schedules for something as basic as taking a bath.

And if you think I’m exaggerating—open Facebook.
Search “Primewater.” Filter the results to “Posts.”
What you’ll find isn’t a one-off incident.
It’s a crisis wearing different faces—same story, different barangay.

Families waking before dawn to catch clean water.
Water that looks clear—until the rashes come.
Households billed full amounts despite barely getting a drop.

And when Primewater branches post an update—usually about a service interruption—they turn off the comment section.
No questions. No pushback. No accountability.
They post, then lock the conversation before it begins.

You could change the date and the city, and the post would still feel the same.
Because this isn’t just a glitch—it’s a routine.

And people aren’t quiet because they’re okay with it.
They’re quiet because they’re tired.

And fatigue is what happens when you keep asking for water… and get billed for none.

The Illusion of Progress: Action Plans That Go Nowhere

It’s not just the excuses we’ve memorized.
It’s the plans.

Every time a complaint gains traction, Primewater doesn’t stay silent. They respond—with graphics, press releases, and bullet-pointed action plans. It always sounds hopeful at first:

• “We’re conducting proactive leak detection.”
  
  

• “Pipeline rehabilitation is underway.”
  
  

• “Elevated tanks are being cleaned regularly.”
  
  

• “Generators are being purchased to offset power issues.”
  
  

• “We’re shifting to surface water sources soon.”
  
  

Always something in progress.
Always something coming.
And yet—nothing changes.

These action plans have been floated for years.
But if you walk into any neighborhood they serve, you won’t find results—you’ll find coping mechanisms.

People with backup drums by their gate.
Showerheads caked in white.
Buckets in the bathroom like it’s still 1998.
And worse—residents patching up leaking pipes on the street themselves because repeated reports are ignored.
They use scrap rubber, old cloth, even duct tape—anything to keep water from spilling out and draining the little pressure they have left.

This isn’t progress. It’s public relations dressed up like a solution.

Even critics have said it—these are the “same old promises” repackaged whenever pressure drops or water turns murky (Opinyon Laguna). Maybe that’s the part that hurts the most: they’re not even trying to say something new.

Because they don’t have to.
We’ve let it slide for so long that repetition became policy.

And yet, behind all this noise—behind the words like “rehabilitation,” “chlorination,” and “bulk supply optimization”—there’s still a simple truth: we open our faucets, and nothing comes out.

But the billing system? That one works perfectly.

Miss a due date, and they’ll disconnect your water in days.
But report a service interruption, and you’re lucky to get a generic reply a week later—if at all.

So now the question isn’t what they promised.
It’s why we keep paying for a service that either doesn’t come—or comes with consequences.

They call it service.
We call it survival with a price tag.

Camille, Before You Ask for Our Vote…

Camille, we know your name.
It’s on billboards. It’s on the news. It’s on the list of Senate candidates.
But long before that—it was already on our water bills.

You’re not just a candidate. You’re a Villar.
And Primewater is your family’s business.

That’s not opinion. That’s public record.
Your father, Manny Villar, owns it. Your mother is in the Senate. Your brother runs it. And you—you’re asking us to trust you with something even bigger than a utility contract: our vote.

But before you ask us to help you win a seat in the Senate, maybe you should help us get a full tank of clean water.

Because we’ve been patient. We’ve made adjustments. We’ve sent reports. We’ve paid the bills.
And still—we shower from buckets. We boil water. We clean calcium off faucets like it’s part of our routine.

You might say, “I’m not the one managing operations.”
That’s the usual answer, isn’t it?

But if you carry the Villar name during campaign season, you carry it during crisis too.
You don’t get to smile through the posters while people are patching leaks with duct tape and begging for pressure strong enough to rinse a plate.

Leadership isn’t just about writing laws. It’s about owning your place in people’s lives—even when it’s inconvenient.
And right now, Primewater is more than inconvenient. It’s a failure we pay for monthly.

So before you promise to fix what’s broken in the country, maybe start with what’s broken under your own roof.

Because here’s the truth:
If this is how you treat us as customers, why should we believe it’ll be different if we become your constituents?

We’re not asking for miracles.
Just water.

And if that’s too much to ask—
Why are you asking for our vote?

What Consumers Like Me Can—and Should—Do

We’ve waited. We’ve adjusted.
Now it’s time to act—quietly, consistently, and together.

Because we can’t keep normalizing this.
We can’t keep twisting faucets with fingers crossed and calling it daily life.

1. Document everything

Take photos. Take videos.
Of the scale buildup, the dripping faucet, the weak water flow.
Of street-side pipes wrapped in cloth because no one came after the fifth report.

Log the dates when there’s no water.
Screenshot every ignored message.
Write down every excuse you were given.

Treat every drop like a receipt—because it is.

2. File complaints—and don’t let them go unanswered

Go to your local Primewater branch. Ask for the PACD (Public Assistance and Complaints Desk).
Send a message through their official Facebook page or email.
Bring your photos. Submit your logbook. And always—always—ask for a reference number.

Keep copies. Follow up.

If they disconnect your service quickly, then there’s no excuse for slow replies.

3. Escalate it—outside Primewater

You are not limited to complaining to the company itself.
If service remains poor or unsafe, report it to:

• LWUA (Local Water Utilities Administration): the official regulator of water districts outside Metro Manila.
  🔗 lwua.gov.ph
  
  

• Your local government: LGUs can call public hearings, investigate service degradation, or apply pressure where needed.
  
  

• DOH or your local health office: If the water poses a health risk—discoloration, contamination, illness—report it. They can test it.
  
  

• FOI (Freedom of Information): File a request at foi.gov.ph to access Primewater’s joint venture contract, audit records, and compliance reports.
  You deserve to know what they promised—and what they failed to deliver.
  
  

4. Organize, even in small ways

Talk to your neighbors.
Compare bills. Compare stories.
If the same issue repeats on your street or barangay, file a group complaint.
Send a petition. Sign together. Speak louder—not alone, but as a community.

You don’t need to start a movement.
Sometimes all it takes is a screenshot with ten signatures.

5. Go public—but stay calm

If you're ready, tell your story online.

Share the photos. Post your log.
Tag Primewater, your city officials, LWUA, DOH—not to rant, but to be seen.
They may not always reply—but the more voices they ignore, the louder the silence becomes.

This isn’t about trending.
This is about truth.

6. Remember what’s at stake

We’ve been adjusting for too long.
Tolerating bad service. Letting excuses pass.
Patching pipes with tape while companies print bills on time.

But water is not a favor.
It’s not a bonus.
It’s a right.

And if we want it to flow the way it should—we have to start pushing back.

Together.

Closing – A Quiet Ending, Not a Goodbye

Every morning, the routine is the same.
Turn the faucet. Wait. Hope. Adjust.

Sometimes water comes. Sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes the pressure is enough to rinse your face.
Other times, it’s barely strong enough to drip.

We’ve learned to live around it.
We boil water for baths.
We clean white crust off metal like it’s part of the job description.
We collect rain in containers when we have to—and then we shrug, because what else can you do?

But just because we’re quiet doesn’t mean we’re okay.

We don’t ask for much.
But we know when we’re being shortchanged.

This isn’t just about weak water pressure or overbilling.
It’s about who gets to own what we all need—and who gets to walk away from the mess they’ve made.

It’s about the kind of power that never loses its supply.

We’ve said our piece.
We’ve written it down.
And we’ll remember.

Because the next time someone asks for our trust—
We’ll be thinking about our water.