“Is this sovereignty, a strategy, or a stalling tactic?”
Is justice pursued, delayed, or dodged? This is the uneasy question swirling around Rodrigo Duterte, the former president of the Philippines, whose proposal for a special court trial—rather than facing the International Criminal Court (ICC)—has triggered a storm of debate. Is this a bold assertion of sovereignty, a clever political strategy, or a desperate stalling tactic? Beneath this controversy lies a fundamental test: can justice endure in the face of political maneuvering?
Duterte’s “war on drugs” began in 2016 with a fiery promise to rid the Philippines of crime. But behind the tough rhetoric came a grim tally: thousands of lives lost in what critics called a campaign of extrajudicial killings and human rights abuses. Official figures count the deaths in the thousands; human rights organizations believe the true number is far higher. By 2018, the ICC had begun investigating Duterte for potential crimes against humanity, scrutinizing the years when the Philippines was a signatory to the Rome Statute.
In 2019, Duterte withdrew the Philippines from the ICC, a move aimed at shielding himself from international oversight. Yet his past actions remain under the court’s jurisdiction, and recent statements from President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.’s administration suggest cooperation with the ICC, signaling the legal walls closing in around Duterte.
Once unassailable, Duterte now appears to be a man grasping for control. The political terrain has shifted. Public approval of him—and of his daughter, Vice President Sara Duterte—has plummeted, a stark contrast to their earlier sky-high ratings. His political alliances are fraying; members of his once-loyal PDP-Laban party are drifting toward the Marcos camp. Even his grassroots mobilizations, once his political lifeblood, have drawn disappointing turnouts. The special court proposal seems to be his latest effort to regain the initiative, but does it reveal strength or weakness?
Duterte’s gambit is couched in the language of nationalism. He claims that Filipino courts, not international bodies, should judge his actions. This appeal to sovereignty resonates with a section of the population, aligning with constitutional provisions that vest judicial power in domestic courts. Duterte’s team may argue that the ICC’s complementarity principle—that international intervention is warranted only when local systems fail—justifies the creation of a special court. Congress, after all, has the constitutional authority to establish such courts, lending a veneer of legitimacy to the plan.
But critics see through the veneer. A court designed specifically for Duterte could be perceived as a mockery of impartiality, an affront to both domestic and international legal norms. Skeptics warn that this could be a tactic to shield Duterte from accountability, undermining trust in Philippine institutions. The ICC, meanwhile, remains unlikely to be deterred; its jurisdiction over crimes committed before the Philippines’ withdrawal is firmly established.
Politically, the special court proposal seems as much a chess move as a legal argument. By framing himself as a nationalist warrior resisting foreign interference, Duterte seeks to rally his waning base. Yet this strategy forces the Marcos administration into a corner. Will they back Duterte in the name of sovereignty or risk alienating segments of their shared constituency by remaining neutral?
For Duterte, the stakes are personal and profound. A misstep could expose him to international prosecution, a humiliation for a leader who once ruled with swagger. For Marcos, the dilemma is equally fraught: align too closely with Duterte, and risk being seen as complicit; distance too far, and provoke the ire of Duterte’s still-significant support base.
But what of justice? A special court for Duterte risks setting a dangerous precedent. Will it enhance accountability, or will it erode the credibility of the judicial system itself? The international community watches, wary of yet another leader using nationalist rhetoric as a smokescreen for evading scrutiny.
For the ICC, the challenge is clear: proceed transparently, bolstered by unimpeachable evidence. For the Marcos administration, the task is even trickier: maintaining neutrality while strengthening the nation’s legal institutions to meet international standards. And for the Filipino people, this is a moment of reckoning. The demand for justice must be loud and unwavering, whether it emerges from domestic courts or international ones.
In the end, Duterte’s gambit is not just a test of his political survival—it is a test of the Philippine judiciary, of its resilience under the glare of both domestic and global attention. The outcome will ripple far beyond Duterte’s fate, shaping the country’s standing on the world stage and the integrity of its institutions. As this drama unfolds, one truth is unavoidable: the rule of law is more than a mechanism for accountability. It is the measure of a nation’s soul.
