MANILA— For years, the political architecture of the Philippines was built upon an iron-clad sense of domestic impunity. But as the tropical humidity of the 2026 dry season settles over the capital, that edifice is showing profound structural fractures.
The latest tremors arrived not from the volcanic ridges of the archipelago, but from a 16-page legal filing in the Netherlands. The International Criminal Court (I.C.C.), in a newly unredacted Document Containing Charges, has formally named two of the country’s most visible political figures—Senators Christopher “Bong” Go and Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa—as co-perpetrators in a systematic campaign of extrajudicial violence that the court classifies as crimes against humanity.
The disclosure has sent a localized shockwave through the Philippine legislature, forcing a confrontation between the country’s populist past and a global legal apparatus that refuses to blink. It marks a tightening of the noose around the inner circle of former President Rodrigo Duterte, who has remained in I.C.C. custody since early 2025, an event that once seemed unthinkable in a nation long defined by the resilience of its strongmen.
For the PDP-Laban party, the standard-bearer of the Duterte era, the court’s latest move is viewed not as an act of justice, but as a calculated piece of political theater. In a sharp-edged communiqué issued this week, the party characterized the I.C.C.’s announcement as a "diversionary tactic," an attempt to insulate the current administration from simmering corruption scandals and bureaucratic inertia. To the party’s loyalists, the naming of the senators is a desperate bid for institutional relevance—a "foreign intrusion" designed to unsettle the allies of a fallen president.
Yet, the document signed by Deputy Prosecutor Mame Mandiaye Niang offers a narrative far more granular than mere political maneuvering. It outlines what prosecutors describe as a "common plan"—a blueprint for state-sanctioned lethality that did not begin with Mr. Duterte’s presidency in 2016, but was instead refined during his decades-long tenure as the mayor of Davao City.
According to the prosecution, this "Davao model" was a lethal experiment in municipal governance, where suspected drug users and petty criminals were "neutralized" by death squads operating with the tacit or explicit approval of City Hall. When Mr. Duterte ascended to the Malacañang Palace, the document alleges, this local machinery was scaled into a national enterprise.
In this grim hierarchy, the I.C.C. identifies Senator Dela Rosa—the former national police chief affectionately known as "Bato" (The Rock)—and Senator Go, the former president’s ubiquitous personal aide, as the "essential figures." They are described as the managers of a "structure of power" that bridged the gap between executive orders and the bloody reality on the streets, ensuring that lower-level officers followed the script of the "War on Drugs" with the assurance of protection from above.
The reactions from the accused have traced two very different paths of political survival. Mr. Go, whose career has been defined by his proximity to power, has remained in the public eye, adopting a stance of aggrieved innocence. He has dismissed the allegations as "unfounded" and "one-sided," pivoting to a defense of administrative distance. His role, he maintains, was that of a facilitator, a "special assistant" whose duties were clerical, not homicidal. To hear Mr. Go tell it, he was merely a witness to history, never its architect.
In contrast, the silence from Mr. Dela Rosa has been deafening. The man who once stood as the pugnacious face of the drug war has become a ghost in the halls of the Senate. He has not been seen in public since late 2025, following reports that an I.C.C. arrest warrant was imminent. His empty seat in the Senate chamber has become a potent symbol of the anxiety gripping the country’s political class.
The current administration, led by President Ferdinand Marcos Jr., has sought to maintain a posture of studied neutrality, a difficult balancing act in a country where political alliances are often a matter of survival. Malacañang officials were quick to dismiss PDP-Laban’s claims of a "political distraction," noting with a certain cool detachment that the I.C.C. investigation predates the current government and operates on its own "procedural timeline." It is a rhetorical decoupling—an attempt to let the ghosts of the previous administration be exorcised in The Hague without haunting the present.
However, the Senate leadership cannot afford such distance. The chamber is now mired in a delicate debate over protocol: How does a sovereign legislature respond if a foreign court demands the surrender of its sitting members? Some senators have signaled a pragmatic, if somber, respect for international law, while others warn that the "Gray Lady of the Pacific"—as the Senate is sometimes called—must protect its independence from external "judicial overreach."
The tension is expected to reach a crescendo in late February 2026, when the I.C.C. convenes for a confirmation of charges hearing. It will be a moment of reckoning where judges will decide if the "Davao model" and its alleged national expansion constitute enough evidence for a full trial.
For the families of the thousands killed in the darkened alleys of Manila and Cebu, the legal jargon of "co-perpetrators" and "common plans" offers a cold, belated comfort. For the Philippine state, however, it represents a profound test of identity. As the court in The Hague prepares its case, the Philippines is left to wonder if its future will be defined by the rule of law, or by the enduring shadows of its recent, violent past.©KuryenteNews