Cash-strapped borrowers resort to online lending applications for quick money—only to face a barrage of non-stop calls and threatening texts days later, making a band-aid solution cut even deeper.

EVERY TEXT rings like a warning—a reminder of the borrowers’ debt and the time running until the next payment cut-off.

Loans are not always accessible. Banks take a long approval process, while shame is present when asking family and friends for money. Because of these terms, people turn to the easier option: online lending applications (OLAs).

While accessible, the money at the click of a finger comes at a steep price of more than a 30–40% interest rate. Beyond this are endless texts, calls, and constant harassment from the people behind these lending apps—making the experience a tragedy that persists even after the debt is paid off. If borrowers are willing to endure much loss, how little must they have started with?

A faulty lifeline

In 2022, Ky*, now 36 years old, was working in the Human Resources (HR) department when his parents had a medical emergency. As the family’s sole provider, the pressure fell on him to pay medical bills while continuing to handle daily expenses.

“I need[ed] to get around [Php] 10,000 to 15,000 without hassling anyone. So tinry ko [‘yung OLA] (So I tried the OLA.),” he says.

After stumbling on a promising online advertisement for an OLA, Ky downloaded the app, hoping the loans would lighten the weight of his expenses. The process was simple: register for an account and submit a valid ID. However, the app also demanded access to his contact list to serve as his ‘references.’

With the app allowing a high credit limit, Ky borrowed around Php 3,000 to Php 5,000 each from two different OLAs. He shared that it was very convenient to receive the money, at least upon first receiving it.

However, the loans were not entirely as advertised. Although the borrower would be approved for a principal loan of Php 5,000, the net cash received after hidden fees would only be around Php 3,500. A week later, the borrower would have to pay Php 5,500 on top of high interest rates for missed payments.

Meanwhile, Ria*, a 46-year-old also working in the HR Department, shared that she lived a comfortable life before using an OLA. It was only when her ex-husband lost his job in 2023 that she had to resort to OLAs to continue providing for her son, who was living in the US with her sister.

She needed to raise about Php 200,000 for her son’s education, and through a co-worker’s recommendation, she downloaded OLAs. Out of necessity and desperation, she used six different apps, receiving around Php 18,000 from each.

Despite being able to put together some money, she ultimately decided to continue her son’s education in the Philippines due to financial restraints. “The decision for my son to go back home and not take college in the US [was] humbling and painful,” she shares.

While coping with this heavy choice, Ria was also dealing with her debts, as the terms of her loan stated that she had to pay within a week or the loan would accrue interest. However, days before the deadline, she received texts and multiple calls from the lender, calling her ‘stupid’ and ‘irresponsible.’

This made Ria feel deeply violated as the lenders even threatened to expose her to her contacts if she did not pay immediately. As the aggression worsened, Ria’s family, friends, and even her dentist, also received texts that called her a scammer.

In both Ria’s and Ky’s experiences, they were told that the original due date listed was a ‘system error,’ hence, the lenders would collect the payment earlier.

Ky, who was also unable to meet the sudden earlier deadline, received texts coming from different numbers full of curse words and demeaning messages. “Close friends [also] got those nasty messages—they were concerned,” he shares, adding that he could not be upfront about the situation at first.

With the multiple OLAs that he used, it was difficult to keep track of which lending app the texts were coming from.

Letters from the debtbed

Ky’s hands were tied behind his empty pockets when repayment dates threatened to close in earlier than promised. With his back pushed against the wall, Ky bargained for a single-day grace period—attempting to get by on borrowed time, as he once did on borrowed money.

Yet, these attempts fell short in the face of the several OLAs he had become indebted to, as they held greater power through their access to Ky’s personal network—and, with it, the leverage to jeopardize his reputation.

Even after paying off all his dues, Ky remains anxious about the perceptions that his workmates, relatives, and friends conceive of him. In his own way of coping, he paged help from a life coach after forgoing previous commitments due to extreme shame. Yet, when asked if he desires to seek further legal aid, Ky contends that his family and life coach have provided enough support.

Ria, on the other hand, experienced a recurrence of her depressive symptoms. Her days were once inundated with threats, making each night a plea for tomorrow not to arrive. “I couldn’t sleep, and if I [slept], I didn’t wanna wake up anymore because I just wanted  [the harassment] to stop,” she painfully recalls.

At the peak of harassment, Ria spoke with a lawyer who outlined possible avenues for legal defense. Despite this, she remained skeptical due to slow-paced government interventions—a mismatch with the rapid growth of harassment cases.

While Ria consulted a psychiatrist and sought support from her relatives, the weight of harassment follows her until today. Now, she sticks Post-it notes by her bedside table where due dates and amounts are listed—the sole remnants of OLAs she allowed into her life.

At present, Ria has deleted all OLAs from her mobile phone and switched to a different contact number.

Cannot be reached

As the issue of OLA harassment was discussed in a consultation with Deputy City Prosecutor Freddie M. Nojara, he recalled that such cases were unheard of during his early years of legal practice—a time when technology and online loan applications were not yet accessible.

While Philippine legislation provides clauses that generally protect individuals against harassment, Nojara asserts that such laws—like the Revised Penal Code of 1930—have proven to be “obsolete” in the context of OLAs. To mend such obsolescence, Nojara calls on the Philippine Congress to provide greater protection for borrowers against creditors.

Nojara points to the poverty in the Philippines as a socioeconomic factor that drives reliance on OLAs, which in turn perpetuates their power and the harassment that follows. This, coupled with the lack of comprehensive and protective legal measures, puts Filipinos at further risk.

“[Because many] Filipinos are poor […] [kuma]kapit sila kahit sa patalim (Because many Filipinos are poor, they hold on to anything—even blades),” Nojara explains.

In stark contrast to the poverty faced by many Filipino debtors, creditors stand tall on foundations built from those very debts. Nojara explains that these lenders are well-equipped financially—enough to wield power and hire high-profile lawyers—leaving most debtors, like Ky and Ria, at a disadvantage.

Ky concedes that handling his debts proved harder than anticipated, and that there were periods when he struggled to keep up with the burden. However, he remains firm that he did not deserve to be harassed, and neither did any previous victim of OLAs. He calls upon lending agencies to abide by the humane, “right,” manner of settling loans and due resettlement.

No matter how out of hand the debts got, for the borrowers, it was simply a matter of survival. Behind each horrid text message sent, heated call, and threat planted stood Ky and Ria, walking different lives yet sharing the same universal desire that resonates with every Filipino: to keep their families afloat—without sinking deep, neither in debt nor harassment.