The humid air in Manila doesn’t just sit; it clings. It carries the scent of exhaust, street food, and, for a long time, a metallic tang that the locals learned to recognize before they even saw the source. It was the smell of a gutter after a heavy rain, mixed with something sharper. It was the smell of the "War on Drugs."
For six years, the Philippines lived under a shadow that was often cast by the flicker of television screens. At the center of the frame was Rodrigo Duterte. He wasn't a polished diplomat or a soft-spoken statesman. He was a man of gravel and fire, a leader who spoke in the cadence of a street fighter. When he promised to fatten the fish in Manila Bay with the bodies of criminals, some cheered. They were tired of the chaos. They wanted a solution. They didn't realize the solution would come with a body count that would eventually catch the eye of the highest court on Earth.
Today, the International Criminal Court (ICC) is no longer just a distant acronym in a Dutch office building. For the families left behind in the slums of Tondo and Quezon City, it is a ledger. It is the only place where the numbers—estimates ranging from 6,000 to over 30,000 deaths—are being treated as human lives rather than collateral damage.
The Knock at the Door
Imagine a narrow alleyway. The walls are made of corrugated metal and salvaged wood. It’s midnight. A father is sleeping on a thin mat next to his children. There is a sudden, rhythmic pounding on the door. It’s not the polite knock of a neighbor. It’s the sound of authority stripped of its restraint.
In the official police reports, these encounters almost always ended with the same word: Nanlaban. It means "he fought back." It was the ultimate justification. If a suspect resisted, lethal force was not just permitted; it was expected. But as the ICC prosecutors have noted in their mounting evidence, the physics of these "confrontations" rarely made sense. Men were shot while kneeling. Men were shot while begging. Men were shot in the back.
The narrative of the "drug war" was built on the idea of a necessary purge. To save the country, the "scum" had to be removed. It was a binary world of heroes and villains, with no room for the messy reality of poverty, addiction, or mistaken identity. But for the International Criminal Court, the law is not binary. It is forensic.
The Architecture of a Policy
The ICC’s investigation isn't just looking at the triggermen. It is looking at the blueprint. Prosecutors argue that the killings weren't the result of a few "bad apples" or overzealous local cops. They allege a systematic, state-sanctioned attack on a civilian population.
When a president stands on a podium and tells the public he will protect them from prosecution if they kill drug users, the legal landscape shifts. It’s no longer about individual crimes. It becomes a question of "Crimes Against Humanity." This is the invisible stake. If a leader can successfully redefine murder as public service, the very foundation of international law begins to crack.
Consider the "Davao Death Squad" model. Long before he was president, Duterte was the mayor of Davao City. It was his laboratory. The tactics honed there—motorcycle-riding gunmen, "hit lists" compiled by local officials, and a total lack of accountability—became the national standard after 2016. The transition from local phenomenon to national policy is what the ICC is currently dissecting. They are looking for the thread that connects a street-level shooting to a directive issued from the Malacañang Palace.
The Silence of the Survivors
Fear is a quiet thing. It doesn't always scream; usually, it just keeps its head down and moves to the other side of the street. For years, the families of those killed stayed silent. To speak out was to mark yourself. If your son was a "pusher," then you were the family of a pusher. You were complicit by blood.
But silence has a shelf life.
As Duterte’s term ended and the political winds began to shift, the stories started to leak out. Mothers who had spent years scrubbing blood out of floorboards began to meet in secret. They shared photos of their dead—not the police mugshots, but the photos of birthdays, graduations, and quiet afternoons. These women are the primary witnesses for the ICC. They are the ones who remember the color of the shirts the men in masks were wearing. They remember the names of the officers who told them not to bother filing a report.
The ICC’s push to investigate has met fierce resistance. The Philippine government officially withdrew from the Rome Statute—the treaty that established the court—in 2019. They argued that the court has no jurisdiction, that the domestic justice system is working perfectly fine.
Is it?
In a country where the conviction rate for police-led killings is infinitesimally low, the "functioning system" looks more like a brick wall. The ICC acts as the ladder. It is the "court of last resort," designed specifically for moments when a nation’s own doors are locked from the inside.
The Weight of the Evidence
Prosecutors aren't just relying on heartbreak. They are relying on data. They have compiled thousands of pages of testimonies, forensic reports, and public statements. They are looking at the rhetoric. In the world of international law, words have weight. When a leader says, "I don't care about human rights," it isn't just a soundbite. It is evidence of intent.
The struggle now is a game of legal chess. The Philippine government under the current administration has sent mixed signals. At times, they talk of sovereignty and "foreign interference." At others, they seem to acknowledge that the ghost of the drug war is a haunting that won't go away until it is faced.
The real cost of the last few years isn't just the lives lost. It’s the erosion of the idea that everyone is entitled to a day in court. When you skip the trial and go straight to the funeral, you aren't just killing a person. You are killing the concept of a civilization.
The Ghost in the Room
Duterte remains a popular figure for many. To his supporters, he was the man who dared to do what was necessary. They see the ICC as a tool of Western imperialism, a group of Europeans in robes telling a sovereign nation how to handle its criminals. This tension is the heart of the matter. Is justice a local matter, or is there a standard of humanity that transcends borders?
If the ICC succeeds in bringing charges, it will be a landmark moment in the 21st century. It will signal that the "strongman" era has a ceiling. It will tell every leader who uses the language of violence that the world is recording their speeches and counting their victims.
But for the families in Manila, the Hague feels like a different planet. They don't care about the intricacies of the Rome Statute or the diplomatic dance between Manila and the Netherlands. They care about the fact that their kitchen chair is empty. They care about the fact that nobody ever said "sorry."
The process is slow. Glacially slow. There will be more appeals, more jurisdictional challenges, and more political grandstanding. But the investigation has a momentum of its own now. The boxes of evidence are stacked high. The names are typed out in neat rows.
Justice isn't always a hammer. Sometimes, it’s just a persistent, quiet turning of a page. It’s the refusal to let a story be buried in a shallow grave.
In a small room in a crowded neighborhood, a woman lights a candle. She doesn't have a lawyer. She doesn't have a political platform. She only has a memory of a night when the world turned violent and the law looked the other way. She is waiting for the world to look back. And for the first time in a decade, it finally is.
The ink is drying on the indictments, and the metallic smell in the air is finally beginning to fade, replaced by the scent of old paper and the cold, hard certainty of the truth.
Would you like me to research the current legal status of the ICC's warrants regarding the Philippine drug war?
