From Davao’s Streets to The Hague: A Moment of Reckoning
There are moments when the air itself seems to shift, when a single legal filing reaches across oceans and settles over neighborhoods thousands of miles away. The International Criminal Court’s latest charges against former Philippine president Rodrigo Duterte feel like one of those moments — a legal thunderclap that has people in Manila, Davao and beyond replaying years of grief and anger.
In a heavily redacted charge sheet dated 4 July and revealed only recently, ICC prosecutors have accused Mr. Duterte of participating in crimes against humanity linked to his notorious “war on drugs.” The document outlines three counts alleging his involvement in at least 76 murders spanning his years in office and earlier local leadership — a list that prosecutors say represents just the tip of a much larger, brutal campaign.
What the ICC alleges
The charges, as described by prosecutors, break down into three broad clusters:
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Alleged co-perpetration in 19 killings between 2013 and 2016 while Mr. Duterte was mayor of Davao City.
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Alleged responsibility for 14 “high value target” murders in 2016–2017 during his presidency.
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Alleged involvement in 43 killings carried out during “clearance” operations targeting lower-level alleged drug users or pushers across the Philippines from 2016 to 2018.
“The actual scale of victimisation during the charged period was significantly greater, as reflected in the widespread nature of the attack,” the prosecutors wrote, adding: “The attack included thousands of killings, which were perpetrated consistently throughout the charged period.”
From arrest warrant to custody: the legal journey so far
This latest filing follows an arrest warrant issued on 7 March that focused on 43 alleged murders; Mr. Duterte was detained in Manila on 11 March, transported to the Netherlands the same night, and has been held in the ICC detention unit at Scheveningen. A scheduled appearance to hear the charges was put on hold as judges consider whether Mr. Duterte is fit to participate in proceedings.
Nicholas Kaufman, the former president’s lawyer, has characterized his client’s condition bluntly: “He is not able to stand trial as a result of cognitive impairment in multiple domains.” Counsel has urged the court to postpone the case indefinitely, setting up a legal standoff between questions of physical and mental fitness and calls from victims’ families for accountability.
Why this matters beyond paperwork
There’s an old saying in journalism: a number on a piece of paper does not capture a life. The ICC’s 76-count outline does not — and cannot — hold every bereft mother, every child who lost a father at a marketplace, every neighbor who learned to whisper names in the night. But for those families, the filing is a record, a recognition that their losses are not invisible.
“We have been waiting for someone to say what happened,” said Maria*, a woman from a neighbourhood outside Davao whose brother was killed in 2016. “It is not just about punishment. It is about truth. We need our children to know why their fathers are gone.”
Across the Philippines, reactions have been mixed and raw. A jeepney driver in Quezon City shrugged and said, “Some people cheered the tough talk when it was happening. But now? Now the same talk smells like a crime scene.” A sari-sari store owner in Davao, where Duterte made his political name, paused before answering: “He helped build our city’s streets, but I cannot forget the ones who vanished. We want fairness more than vengeance.”
Numbers and context: the fog of statistics
How many died in the “war on drugs”? There is no single, stable answer. Official police figures for deadly operations often cite thousands of deaths; human rights organizations and U.N. experts argue the toll runs much higher when extrajudicial and vigilante-style killings are included. Estimates vary: some NGOs have suggested the number of fatalities may reach into the tens of thousands when all reports are accounted for. The ICC’s language — referencing “thousands of killings” — underscores the scale that has made this more than a national crisis; it is an issue the court sees as engaging international criminal law.
What makes these figures painful is how ordinary so many of the stories are. A marketplace argument escalates. A midnight knock. A police operation that never files a full report. In neighborhoods across the archipelago, anniversaries of the killings have become small, painful rituals: a candle left on a doorstep, a crucifix or shrine at the corner where someone fell.
Voices that tug at the story’s human threads
“Accountability is not just a legal word,” said Dr. Liza Navarro, a human rights scholar in Manila. “It is the recognition that a state must answer for policies that enabled death and fear. The ICC’s role is to examine command responsibility — did leaders design and preside over conditions that made these crimes possible?”
For victims’ families, proceedings at The Hague are less abstract than they might seem. “Every time I hear them say ‘investigation,’ I imagine my son coming back,” said Ramon*, whose adult son was listed among the victims of a 2017 “clearance” sweep. “Justice feels like a long road, but it is the only road we have.”
Questions for the global reader
As you read this, ask yourself: when does rhetoric about safety cross the line into sanctioned violence? How should democratic societies balance hardline crime-fighting with the rule of law and human rights? These are not questions confined to the Philippines. They echo across democracies and autocracies alike, where leaders trade in certainty and street-level security for messy, expensive guarantees of due process.
There is also a geopolitical layer. The Philippines withdrew from the Rome Statute in 2019, but the ICC maintains jurisdiction for crimes that allegedly began while the country was a state party. That legal tension — between national sovereignty and international accountability — is playing out under intense public scrutiny.
Where do we go from here?
The weeks and months ahead will determine more than the fate of one man. They will test international law’s capacity to adjudicate political violence, and they will measure a society’s willingness to confront crimes that were once justified as necessity.
Whether you are thousands of miles away, hearing this story as a footnote to global headlines, or standing on the corner where a life once ended, the same human question remains: can institutions, however imperfect, offer something like closure to those who have only ever known absence?
For now, the ICC file sits in Scheveningen’s cold-light corridors; in the Philippines, small altars glow at dusk. Between the two, conversations continue — about guilt, memory, and the hard work of rebuilding trust. The world is watching; the families are waiting. The true measure of justice will be in what follows the filings and the headlines.
*Names have been changed to protect privacy.
