We were stripped of our dignity.
In The Hague, the International Criminal Court has begun examining whether Rodrigo Duterte's drug war — which left thousands dead across the Philippines — constitutes crimes against humanity or the rough edges of legitimate governance. The hearing asks a question older than any single nation: when does a leader's words become a weapon, and when does the state's silence become complicity? For the families who have carried their grief without justice, this court may be the last place where their loss is given a name.
- Prosecutors argue Duterte's years of public incitement — naming targets, praising mass killings, and shielding officers who carried them out — form an unmistakable blueprint for orchestrated murder, not mere political theater.
- The defense insists Duterte was a blunt, populist performer whose violent rhetoric was calculated intimidation rather than criminal instruction, and that his words were misread by those who feared him and those who followed him alike.
- Victims' representatives described a machinery of death that extended beyond the killings themselves — families who sought justice were ignored, dismissed, or threatened by the very officials implicated in the violence.
- A culture of impunity has outlasted the drug war itself, with Duterte's ideological followers continuing to harass bereaved families, leaving the ICC as the only institution these victims believe will hear them.
- The judges must now decide whether the evidence — speeches, operational records, patterns of killing — is sufficient to confirm charges and send one of the world's most prominent populist leaders to trial.
The ICC's confirmation hearing opened in The Hague with a question that cuts to the heart of the Philippines' recent history: did Rodrigo Duterte's drug war amount to crimes against humanity, or was it a brutal but legally defensible exercise of state power? Over four days, prosecutors, defense counsel, and victims' representatives offered competing portraits of the same man and the same campaign.
The prosecution's argument was built on Duterte's own words. Deputy prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang walked judges through years of public statements in which Duterte promised to kill drug suspects, praised specific deadly operations, and assured police they would be protected. When he moved from Davao to the presidency in 2016, he brought trusted allies into national positions and the killings scaled with him. The prosecution contended this pattern — of speech, appointment, and public endorsement — proved a coordinated plan to commit murder.
The defense painted a different picture. Lead counsel Nicholas Kaufman described Duterte as a raw, unfiltered populist whose violent language was theatrical bluster designed to project authority, not a criminal directive. Senior trial lawyer Julian Nicholls countered that even setting aside the speeches, the operational evidence alone — the rise and fall of killings in step with police activity, the rewards and promotions for those who carried them out — was enough to establish intent.
The hearing's most searing moments came from victims' representatives. Paolina Massida described the mechanics of the killings and the systematic failure of every institution families turned to for help. Joel Butuyan warned that if charges were not confirmed, Duterte would return home as a symbol of vindication, his gospel of impunity intact. And lawyer Gilbert Andres distilled the deeper harm in a single phrase: "Inalisan kami ng dangal" — we were stripped of our dignity. For thousands of families, the ICC is not merely a legal venue. It is the only place left where their loss might finally be acknowledged.
The International Criminal Court's confirmation hearing began Monday in The Hague with a question that will reshape how the Philippines reckons with its recent past: Did former President Rodrigo Duterte's drug war constitute crimes against humanity, or was it a lawful, if blunt, exercise of executive power? Over four days, prosecutors, victims' lawyers, and the defense would present starkly different versions of the same events—thousands of deaths, a nation transformed, and a leader who either orchestrated mass murder or spoke in hyperbole that others misunderstood.
The prosecution's case rested on a simple claim: Duterte's intent was never hidden. Deputy ICC prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang walked the judges through years of public statements in which Duterte promised to kill drug suspects, urged police and citizens to do the same, and made clear that violence was his preferred solution to crime. These were not offhand remarks. They were repeated, deliberate communications that established both knowledge and criminal purpose. When Duterte moved from Davao's mayor's office to the presidency in 2016, he brought trusted associates into key national positions and scaled the campaign nationwide. The killings accelerated. Duterte praised specific operations—32 deaths in a single Bulacan raid—and publicly named targets. He promised to protect police who carried out the work. The prosecution argued that this pattern of speech, appointment, and public endorsement, combined with operational evidence, proved Duterte had orchestrated a common plan to commit murder.
The defense offered a portrait of a different man. Lead counsel Nicholas Kaufman described Duterte as a unique political phenomenon—crude, unfiltered, and unpopular with elites, but sincere and beloved by ordinary Filipinos who valued his directness. His rhetoric, Kaufman argued, was calculated to instill fear and respect for law and order, not to incite murder. It was bluster, the theatrical language of a strongman, not a criminal blueprint. When prosecutors pointed to his finger-across-the-throat gesture during a speech, or his sarcastic remarks about "bleeding hearts and the media" when forced to temporarily withdraw police, the defense suggested these were the performative gestures of a leader playing to his base, not evidence of murderous intent.
But the prosecution's senior trial lawyer Julian Nicholls pushed back hard. Even if every speech were discarded, he told the judges, the remaining evidence—operational records, witness testimony, the pattern of killings that rose and fell with police activity—was sufficient to prove intent. The message to subordinates was unmistakable: commit murder at my direction, and I will protect you, pay you, promote you. That is what happened.
The human dimension emerged most starkly through the voices of victims' representatives. Paolina Massida of the Office of Public Counsel for Victims described the mechanics of death: shootings in the street or behind closed doors, bodies dumped with hands tied or heads wrapped in plastic, discovered by neighbors or alerted by police. She described families who sought justice through official channels—filing reports, begging for investigation—only to be ignored, dismissed, or approached by the very officials involved in the killings. No institution listened. No authority protected them. The system itself had become complicit.
Lawyer Joel Butuyan, the ICC-appointed representative for victims, spoke of a culture of impunity that had metastasized. Duterte had created what he called "clones of himself"—millions of Filipinos converted to the belief that violence was a legitimate solution to social problems. The killings had stopped, but the threats had not. Families continued to face harassment and violence from Duterte's ideological followers. If the charges were not confirmed, Butuyan warned, Duterte would return to the Philippines as a conquering hero, resuming his gospel of impunity. The victims had nowhere else to turn. The ICC was their last refuge.
Lawyer Gilbert Andres captured the deeper wound in a single phrase: "Inalisan kami ng dangal." We were stripped of our dignity. The drug war had not merely killed people; it had targeted their humanity, their families' humanity, their communities' sense of worth. Thousands were dead. Thousands more lived in the shadow of that violence, denied justice in their own country, waiting to see if the world's court would finally acknowledge that what happened to them mattered.
Notable Quotes
His intent and knowledge are shown by the multiple statements that he made throughout his mayoral and presidential tenure promising to reduce crimes by killing alleged criminals, promoting the common plan, and urging the police and even members of the public to kill alleged criminals.— Deputy ICC prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang
The victims have waited years for this moment. They have been silenced, stigmatized, and denied justice in their own country. Today, they stand before you with the hope that justice long denied may finally be within reach. This is their last refuge.— Paolina Massida, Office of Public Counsel for Victims
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter whether Duterte intended the killings versus simply speaking carelessly?
Because intent determines whether this was a crime or a tragedy. If he deliberately orchestrated murders, that's crimes against humanity. If he was just a crude politician whose rhetoric was misinterpreted by overeager subordinates, that's a different legal question entirely. The judges have to decide which story the evidence supports.
The defense says his speeches were just bluster. How do prosecutors counter that?
They point to what happened after the speeches. Duterte didn't just talk—he moved his trusted associates from Davao into national positions, he praised specific killing operations publicly, he promised to protect police. The pattern shows calculation, not carelessness. Words followed by action.
What strikes you most about what the victims' representatives said?
That they tried everything first. They went to police, to local officials, to government agencies. The system was supposed to protect them. Instead, the people they asked for help were sometimes the ones doing the killing. They exhausted every domestic remedy before coming to the ICC.
If the charges are confirmed, what happens next?
A full trial. The judges will hear more evidence, more witnesses. It could take years. But confirmation signals that there's enough evidence to proceed—that this isn't frivolous, that the court takes it seriously.
What's at stake for the Philippines?
Everything. If Duterte is convicted, it says that even presidents face consequences for mass killings. If he's acquitted or the charges don't confirm, it sends the opposite message—that power insulates you from accountability, even for thousands of deaths.