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Written by Cass-Solid
Cartoon by Kyle Pontillo
“My order is shoot to kill you. I don’t care about human rights, you better believe me.” - Rodrigo Duterte, August 6, 2016.
Former Philippine President Rodrigo Roa Duterte built his political career on fear, violence, and a blatant disregard for human rights. For years, he acted with impunity, believing he was above the law. But now, the very justice system he scorned has caught up with him. The International Criminal Court (ICC) has charged him with crimes against humanity, holding him accountable for his bloody war on drugs.
On March 11, 2025, Duterte was arrested for his role in extrajudicial killings (EJKs) spanning from his tenure as mayor of Davao City—where he is accused of orchestrating the Davao Death Squad—to his presidency (2016–2022). While official records report 6,229 deaths, human rights groups estimate the toll exceeds 12,000. The ICC alleges that Duterte armed hitmen, incentivized police to carry out executions, and shielded them from prosecution.
Duterte once dictated the fate of others with a snap of his fingers, yet today, his own fate rests in the hands of international judges. On March 15, 2025, he appeared at the ICC pre-trial chamber in The Hague, Netherlands—no longer the executioner, but the accused.
When the Executioner Begs for Mercy
“It is not possible to be in favor of justice for some people and not be in favor of justice for all people.” - Martin Luther King Jr.
As news of Duterte’s arrest broke, social media erupted into a digital battlefield. His loyalists fiercely defended him, while critics celebrated his reckoning. But the outrage did not stay online—those who once dismissed protests as “rebellious” or “communist” flooded the streets, demanding his release. Ironically, their rallying cry was the very thing they once mocked: human rights.
Where was this outrage when the streets ran red? When innocent lives were taken on mere suspicion, executed not in courtrooms but at gunpoint? Night after night, bodies lay lifeless on pavements, their final plea for mercy unheard. Yet now, as Duterte falls from power, he faces a justice system far kinder than the one he imposed. Unlike those executed without trial, he has lawyers, due process, and the right to appeal. His victims were not as fortunate—gunned down, hands tied, unaware of the charges against them. Their families, too afraid to seek justice, were left with grief and silence.
Duterte’s arrest is not just an indictment—it is proof that power does not guarantee immunity. He was once seen as untouchable. And yet, here he is, standing before the very system he denied others.
But seeking justice for EJK victims does not mean dismissing the suffering caused by drugs. Justice is not a competition. It is about protecting everyone—not just those in power. For years, Duterte’s defenders claimed that demanding accountability meant siding with criminals. That was a lie. We can condemn his brutal drug war while also demanding justice for crime victims. These are not contradictions—they are the pillars of a just society.
Justice is not about choosing between evils; it is about upholding the rule of law. And in a democracy, no one—not even a former president—is above it.
Now, and only now, due process matters—because the man who played god, judge, jury, and executioner is in the defendant’s seat. Now, human rights exist—not as an inconvenience, but as a right worth fighting for.
Safety Was an Illusion, Built on Blood
“Privilege is when you think something is not a problem because you aren’t affected personally.”
A study by Initiatives for Dialogue and Empowerment through Alternative Legal Services, Inc. (IDEALS) analyzed 500 human rights violation cases from 2016 to 2020. Nearly all the victims were blue-collar workers—construction laborers, minimum-wage earners, people simply trying to survive. Additionally, 99% had not completed tertiary education, underscoring how Duterte’s drug war disproportionately targeted the poor.
For some, Duterte’s war on drugs meant a sense of security. For others, it brought terror. While some slept soundly, reassured by his policies, a mother and father clutched their son’s bullet-riddled body on the pavement—his name reduced to another statistic. While some felt safer, families were torn apart, entire communities paralyzed by fear.
Duterte’s defenders often say: “Those were the safest years of my life.” But beyond the privilege that blinded many to the drug war’s brutality, a pressing question remains: Did all this bloodshed even work? The numbers tell a damning story.
Because safety built on blood was never real—it was simply privilege disguised as justice. It is easy to call those years peaceful when you never had to be afraid. When you lived in a gated subdivision, far from the slums where bodies piled up. When you never worried that a knock at the door might be your last.
Privilege is pretending these deaths did not happen just because they did not happen to you. It is the audacity to claim, “Those were the best years of my life,” while others mourned the lives stolen from them. It is the selfish belief that because you were safe, the killings must have been justified.
But justice is not about choosing whose lives matter. A country where people can be killed on mere suspicion is not a safe country—it is a terrifying one.
And even as Duterte’s defenders celebrate the illusion of security, the truth is undeniable: his drug war never went after the true masterminds. The real kingpins—the wealthy, the well-connected—slipped through the cracks. Protected by political influence and systemic corruption, they operated with impunity while the violence fell on the powerless: daily wage earners, slum dwellers, and those who had nowhere to hide.
If the goal was to eradicate drugs, why were the biggest players left untouched? Why did the poor pay the price while those with influence walked free? In the first seven months of Duterte’s presidency alone, over 7,000 individuals were killed in the anti-drug campaign, with most deaths concentrated in marginalized communities (Amnesty International, 2017). Many of these killings were extrajudicial, directly implicating the police, and reflected the deliberate structure of Duterte’s war on drugs.
Even Philippine National Police Director General Ronald Dela Rosa admitted that more poor individuals were killed because “most pushers are poor,” underscoring how the drug trade’s hierarchy left wealthy drug lords insulated from violence while impoverished street-level pushers bore the brunt of the campaign. This systemic bias ensured that high-profile drug syndicates continued operating to thrive while vulnerable communities faced daily terror.
This was never a war on crime—it was a war on the poor. It perpetuated a cycle of violence that neither dismantled drug networks nor addressed the root causes of substance abuse. The enduring presence of drug syndicates despite the campaign’s high human cost raises critical questions about its effectiveness. If mass killings were the solution, why did nothing change?
But justice is not a weapon, and fear is not the foundation of real safety. In the end, fear was all it ever accomplished. The bodies piled up, but the drug trade endured. The killings continued, yet the syndicates thrived. This was never about ending crime, it was about maintaining control.
And what was the result of all this bloodshed? For all the lives lost and communities shattered, the drug problem remains.
The True Cost of Duterte’s Drug War
Despite thousands of killings under Duterte’s rule, drug use in the Philippines persists. In 2023, the Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency (PDEA) reported that over 27,000 barangays—nearly 65% of the country—still had drug-related activity. The Dangerous Drugs Board (DDB) estimated 1.67 million Filipinos continued using drugs, a number virtually unchanged since 2016.
If mass killings were the solution, why does the problem still exist?
If Duterte’s war on drugs truly made the country safer, then why has the drug problem endured? The answer is clear—it was never about solving crime, but about consolidating power through fear. And now, the man who wielded that fear must answer for it.
The failure of the drug war confirms what experts have long argued: substance use disorders (SUDs) are a public health issue, not just a crime. Real solutions—community-based rehabilitation, mental health services, and anti-poverty programs—require governance, not performative violence.
But Duterte’s war on drugs was more than just a failed policy. It was a campaign that dehumanized people with SUDs, painting them as criminals rather than individuals in need of help. It ignored the reality that addiction is a health issue, not a moral failing, and that rehabilitation—not execution—is the just and humane response. Worse, the violence did not stop with drug users. Innocent people, including children, were caught in the crossfire. In Duterte’s first year alone, at least 54 minors were executed in a campaign that claimed to uphold law and order.
The Philippines is built on the principles of justice and human rights. No political loyalty should excuse a leader from accountability. Seeking justice is not an act of hatred—it is an act of principle.
Justice for the Families of EJK Victims: A Call to Action
“The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is the duty of the living to do so for them.”
Justice is not just about holding perpetrators accountable—it is about restoring dignity to victims and closure to their families. Yet, the system has long ignored their cries. Now, as Duterte stands trial, we must stand with them—not just in words, but in action. This means staying informed, countering misinformation, and ensuring his case is not buried by propaganda. We must demand government cooperation with the ICC, push for real accountability, and support human rights organizations that assist victims’ families and document abuses.
But accountability must go beyond Duterte. Laws enabling impunity, weakening due process, and normalizing state violence must be challenged. Through civic action, protests, and institutional reforms, we must prevent history from repeating itself. Justice delayed must not become justice denied. The world is watching, and so must we.
The executioner is finally on trial. The judge has become the judged. Now, it is up to us to ensure that justice is not just promised, but delivered.
“My order is shoot to kill you. I don’t care about human rights, you better believe me.” - Rodrigo Duterte, August 6, 2016.
Former Philippine President Rodrigo Roa Duterte built his political career on fear, violence, and a blatant disregard for human rights. For years, he acted with impunity, believing he was above the law. But now, the very justice system he scorned has caught up with him. The International Criminal Court (ICC) has charged him with crimes against humanity, holding him accountable for his bloody war on drugs.
On March 11, 2025, Duterte was arrested for his role in extrajudicial killings (EJKs) spanning from his tenure as mayor of Davao City—where he is accused of orchestrating the Davao Death Squad—to his presidency (2016–2022). While official records report 6,229 deaths, human rights groups estimate the toll exceeds 12,000. The ICC alleges that Duterte armed hitmen, incentivized police to carry out executions, and shielded them from prosecution.
Duterte once dictated the fate of others with a snap of his fingers, yet today, his own fate rests in the hands of international judges. On March 15, 2025, he appeared at the ICC pre-trial chamber in The Hague, Netherlands—no longer the executioner, but the accused.
When the Executioner Begs for Mercy
“It is not possible to be in favor of justice for some people and not be in favor of justice for all people.” - Martin Luther King Jr.
As news of Duterte’s arrest broke, social media erupted into a digital battlefield. His loyalists fiercely defended him, while critics celebrated his reckoning. But the outrage did not stay online—those who once dismissed protests as “rebellious” or “communist” flooded the streets, demanding his release. Ironically, their rallying cry was the very thing they once mocked: human rights.
Where was this outrage when the streets ran red? When innocent lives were taken on mere suspicion, executed not in courtrooms but at gunpoint? Night after night, bodies lay lifeless on pavements, their final plea for mercy unheard. Yet now, as Duterte falls from power, he faces a justice system far kinder than the one he imposed. Unlike those executed without trial, he has lawyers, due process, and the right to appeal. His victims were not as fortunate—gunned down, hands tied, unaware of the charges against them. Their families, too afraid to seek justice, were left with grief and silence.
Duterte’s arrest is not just an indictment—it is proof that power does not guarantee immunity. He was once seen as untouchable. And yet, here he is, standing before the very system he denied others.
But seeking justice for EJK victims does not mean dismissing the suffering caused by drugs. Justice is not a competition. It is about protecting everyone—not just those in power. For years, Duterte’s defenders claimed that demanding accountability meant siding with criminals. That was a lie. We can condemn his brutal drug war while also demanding justice for crime victims. These are not contradictions—they are the pillars of a just society.
Justice is not about choosing between evils; it is about upholding the rule of law. And in a democracy, no one—not even a former president—is above it.
Now, and only now, due process matters—because the man who played god, judge, jury, and executioner is in the defendant’s seat. Now, human rights exist—not as an inconvenience, but as a right worth fighting for.
Safety Was an Illusion, Built on Blood
“Privilege is when you think something is not a problem because you aren’t affected personally.”
A study by Initiatives for Dialogue and Empowerment through Alternative Legal Services, Inc. (IDEALS) analyzed 500 human rights violation cases from 2016 to 2020. Nearly all the victims were blue-collar workers—construction laborers, minimum-wage earners, people simply trying to survive. Additionally, 99% had not completed tertiary education, underscoring how Duterte’s drug war disproportionately targeted the poor.
For some, Duterte’s war on drugs meant a sense of security. For others, it brought terror. While some slept soundly, reassured by his policies, a mother and father clutched their son’s bullet-riddled body on the pavement—his name reduced to another statistic. While some felt safer, families were torn apart, entire communities paralyzed by fear.
Duterte’s defenders often say: “Those were the safest years of my life.” But beyond the privilege that blinded many to the drug war’s brutality, a pressing question remains: Did all this bloodshed even work? The numbers tell a damning story.
Because safety built on blood was never real—it was simply privilege disguised as justice. It is easy to call those years peaceful when you never had to be afraid. When you lived in a gated subdivision, far from the slums where bodies piled up. When you never worried that a knock at the door might be your last.
Privilege is pretending these deaths did not happen just because they did not happen to you. It is the audacity to claim, “Those were the best years of my life,” while others mourned the lives stolen from them. It is the selfish belief that because you were safe, the killings must have been justified.
But justice is not about choosing whose lives matter. A country where people can be killed on mere suspicion is not a safe country—it is a terrifying one.
And even as Duterte’s defenders celebrate the illusion of security, the truth is undeniable: his drug war never went after the true masterminds. The real kingpins—the wealthy, the well-connected—slipped through the cracks. Protected by political influence and systemic corruption, they operated with impunity while the violence fell on the powerless: daily wage earners, slum dwellers, and those who had nowhere to hide.
If the goal was to eradicate drugs, why were the biggest players left untouched? Why did the poor pay the price while those with influence walked free? In the first seven months of Duterte’s presidency alone, over 7,000 individuals were killed in the anti-drug campaign, with most deaths concentrated in marginalized communities (Amnesty International, 2017). Many of these killings were extrajudicial, directly implicating the police, and reflected the deliberate structure of Duterte’s war on drugs.
Even Philippine National Police Director General Ronald Dela Rosa admitted that more poor individuals were killed because “most pushers are poor,” underscoring how the drug trade’s hierarchy left wealthy drug lords insulated from violence while impoverished street-level pushers bore the brunt of the campaign. This systemic bias ensured that high-profile drug syndicates continued operating to thrive while vulnerable communities faced daily terror.
This was never a war on crime—it was a war on the poor. It perpetuated a cycle of violence that neither dismantled drug networks nor addressed the root causes of substance abuse. The enduring presence of drug syndicates despite the campaign’s high human cost raises critical questions about its effectiveness. If mass killings were the solution, why did nothing change?
But justice is not a weapon, and fear is not the foundation of real safety. In the end, fear was all it ever accomplished. The bodies piled up, but the drug trade endured. The killings continued, yet the syndicates thrived. This was never about ending crime, it was about maintaining control.
And what was the result of all this bloodshed? For all the lives lost and communities shattered, the drug problem remains.
The True Cost of Duterte’s Drug War
Despite thousands of killings under Duterte’s rule, drug use in the Philippines persists. In 2023, the Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency (PDEA) reported that over 27,000 barangays—nearly 65% of the country—still had drug-related activity. The Dangerous Drugs Board (DDB) estimated 1.67 million Filipinos continued using drugs, a number virtually unchanged since 2016.
If mass killings were the solution, why does the problem still exist?
If Duterte’s war on drugs truly made the country safer, then why has the drug problem endured? The answer is clear—it was never about solving crime, but about consolidating power through fear. And now, the man who wielded that fear must answer for it.
The failure of the drug war confirms what experts have long argued: substance use disorders (SUDs) are a public health issue, not just a crime. Real solutions—community-based rehabilitation, mental health services, and anti-poverty programs—require governance, not performative violence.
But Duterte’s war on drugs was more than just a failed policy. It was a campaign that dehumanized people with SUDs, painting them as criminals rather than individuals in need of help. It ignored the reality that addiction is a health issue, not a moral failing, and that rehabilitation—not execution—is the just and humane response. Worse, the violence did not stop with drug users. Innocent people, including children, were caught in the crossfire. In Duterte’s first year alone, at least 54 minors were executed in a campaign that claimed to uphold law and order.
The Philippines is built on the principles of justice and human rights. No political loyalty should excuse a leader from accountability. Seeking justice is not an act of hatred—it is an act of principle.
Justice for the Families of EJK Victims: A Call to Action
“The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is the duty of the living to do so for them.”
Justice is not just about holding perpetrators accountable—it is about restoring dignity to victims and closure to their families. Yet, the system has long ignored their cries. Now, as Duterte stands trial, we must stand with them—not just in words, but in action. This means staying informed, countering misinformation, and ensuring his case is not buried by propaganda. We must demand government cooperation with the ICC, push for real accountability, and support human rights organizations that assist victims’ families and document abuses.
But accountability must go beyond Duterte. Laws enabling impunity, weakening due process, and normalizing state violence must be challenged. Through civic action, protests, and institutional reforms, we must prevent history from repeating itself. Justice delayed must not become justice denied. The world is watching, and so must we.
The executioner is finally on trial. The judge has become the judged. Now, it is up to us to ensure that justice is not just promised, but delivered.
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