Senate President Tito Sotto: Questioning the Supreme Court Is Not Contempt!

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

I am writing this not as a lawyer reciting doctrines or a political actor choosing sides, but as an ordinary citizen who has watched, with quiet unease, how power begins to change its posture once it no longer expects to be questioned. In everyday life, we know this feeling well. We feel it when a teacher refuses correction, when a leader stops listening, when authority grows uncomfortable with dissent. Questioning is not disrespect. It is how trust breathes. It is how institutions stay human. And yet, lately, Filipinos have been made to feel that when it comes to the Supreme Court of the Philippines, silence is the safest response, and questioning is something to fear. That quiet fear unsettles me more than any ruling ever could.

The unease deepened when impeachment complaints were filed against Vice President Sara Duterte. For most Filipinos, the Constitution is not a thick book of footnotes. It is a simple promise. One of those promises is that impeachment belongs to Congress because it is political by nature—because accountability at the highest level must be argued openly, imperfectly, and publicly by people we elect. Impeachment is not meant to be clean or convenient. It is meant to be honest. When the Court stepped in early and issued a ruling that effectively closed that process before it could fully live, many citizens felt something shift inside them. It felt as if a door meant for public judgment had been quietly locked.

It was then that Senate President Vicente Sotto III spoke. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He did not incite defiance. He simply questioned the ruling and warned that impeachment—one of the few remaining tools for holding powerful officials to account—had been weakened to the point of near impossibility. He spoke not as a provocateur, but as the head of a co-equal branch, voicing concern over constitutional balance. And almost immediately, a chilling thought entered public conversation: could he be punished for speaking at all?

That question became painfully real when, on February 13, 2026, a petition was filed seeking to cite him for indirect contempt because of his criticism of the Court’s ruling. When I read his response, what struck me was not anger, but restraint. He said he would wait for the official copy of the ruling before answering. Then he asked a question that lingered in the air like an unanswered prayer: Ako lang ba? Is he alone? What about those who share his view—retired justices, respected law professors, legal scholars, historians—people whose lives have been spent defending the Constitution, not undermining it? What about retired Supreme Court Justice Adolf Azcuna, Fr. Ranhilio Aquino, scholars from the University of the Philippines College of Law, law deans, veteran lawyers, and historians like Manolo Quezon III—all of whom pointed out what they believed were factual errors and warned of judicial legislation? If questioning the Court is contempt, do we silence all of them too? Or is the real discomfort not with contempt but with being questioned?

The following day, February 14, 2026, Senate President Sotto released a formal press statement. It was not dramatic. It was not hostile. It was almost weary in its clarity. He described the contempt petition as a nuisance suit, devoid of legal and factual basis, more spectacle than substance. But what mattered more was his quiet insistence on something basic and deeply human: that disagreement is not disobedience, that criticism is not obstruction, and that speaking one’s mind—especially on constitutional matters—is not a crime.

He reminded the public that indirect contempt, under Rule 71 of the Rules of Court, requires acts that actually impede or obstruct the administration of justice. He did none of those things. He simply disagreed. And that disagreement, he said, is protected speech under the Constitution. He cited cases where the Court itself acknowledged that criticism of judicial acts is punishable only when it poses a clear and present danger and that courts are not fragile institutions meant to be shielded from dissent. Reading those words, one cannot escape the irony: the Court’s own doctrines are now being used to defend the right to question the Court.

What moved me most was not the legal precision of his statement, but its humility. Despite being targeted, he did not attack back. He said he would respond formally only when asked by the Supreme Court. That is not the voice of defiance. That is the voice of someone who still believes in institutions, even while questioning their direction.

At its core, this issue is painfully simple. Contempt of court was never meant to protect judges from criticism. It exists to protect the administration of justice from real harm. When we blur that line, when we begin to punish speech instead of obstruction, we teach people that silence is safer than honesty. And once that lesson is learned, it does not stay confined to politicians. It reaches teachers, journalists, students, and ordinary citizens who begin to wonder whether speaking up is worth the risk.

The Senate President does not speak merely for himself. He speaks as the presiding officer of the Senate of the Philippines, an institution that the Constitution of the Philippines deliberately placed on equal footing with the judiciary. The Supreme Court interprets the law. The Senate, along with the House of Representatives, makes the law and exercises political judgment. They are meant to challenge each other—not to demand silence from one another. When questioning becomes punishable, equality gives way to hierarchy, and dialogue gives way to fear.

Impeachment sits at the heart of this fear because it is the Constitution’s most human mechanism of accountability. It asks uncomfortable questions about trust and leadership. That is why it belongs to Congress. When judicial rulings preempt that process before it can even breathe, something essential is lost. The response from the Senate President was not rebellion. It was grief for a shrinking constitutional space.

This is not about VP Sara Duterte. It is not about idolizing SP Tito Sotto. It is about whether we still believe that power can be spoken to without consequences. If senators, retired justices, professors, historians, and ordinary citizens must whisper instead of speak, then democracy becomes a performance, not a practice.

I return, finally, to the truth that should never have been controversial: questioning the Court is not contempt. It is how constitutional balance survives. Courts are respected—but they are not worshipped. And if Congress or the Senate President can no longer question the Supreme Court, the question answers itself. No one speaks for the people anymore.

__________________

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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Charged for Being There: How Philippine Law Turns Victims into Criminals

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

I still carry the weight of that evening in December 2009, along Masinag, Antipolo, Rizal, the way one carries a bruise long after the skin has healed.

I was stopped—completely trapped in traffic. My SUV wasn’t inching forward, wasn’t swerving, and wasn’t doing anything at all. It was one of those familiar gridlocks where engines hum, tempers simmer, and everyone just waits. My foot was firmly on the brake. Vehicles boxed me in on all sides. I remember thinking only of getting home.

Then the sound came—metal screaming against metal.

A motorcycle burst through the traffic, wild and impatient. There were two riders, neither wearing a helmet. They were forcing speed into a space that simply did not exist, angry at the standstill, gambling with everyone else’s safety. In an instant, they slammed into my SUV.

The impact was violent. Both riders were thrown onto the road. There was blood, shouting, and confusion. People rushed in. Time slowed into that sickening stretch where you realize lives have been altered in seconds. Both riders were injured—seriously—but nobody died. I stepped out immediately, shaken, already bracing myself to help, to cooperate, to do what any decent human being would do.

Then the police arrived.

What I expected—what any reasonable person would expect—was a careful reconstruction of facts: I was stopped. I was hit. I had nowhere to go. Instead, the air shifted. The questions hardened. Jail was mentioned. Detention was discussed. I was told—almost casually—that I could still be charged with reckless imprudence resulting in serious physical injury and that criminal liability was “possible.”

I remember standing there, traffic roaring back into my ears, thinking, "How did this turn into me?"

How does a man who was not moving become the accused?

How does being hit become being blamed?

In that moment, I felt something colder than fear. I felt small. Replaceable. As if truth itself had stepped aside to make room for paperwork and shortcuts.

What followed was not justice. It was pressure wrapped in polite language. Soft voices suggesting that things could be “fixed.” Gentle reminders about how long cases drag on, how detention—even temporary—can ruin reputations, and how court appearances drain time, money, and peace of mind. No one said it outright, but the message was unmistakable: fight the system and suffer, or settle and go home.

So I did what countless Filipinos are quietly forced to do every day. I negotiated my innocence. I paid ₱20,000—not because I was guilty, not because I was reckless, but because I wanted to leave that place as a free man. Because I did not want to spend even one night in a cell trying to explain how standing still became a crime.

I walked away free. But something in me stayed behind on that road in Masinag.

That day taught me a painful truth: in the Philippines, innocence is fragile. It does not protect you. It does not shield you from accusation. Often, it merely slows the damage. What truly protects you is compromise—your ability to settle, to pay, to escape before the machinery of injustice fully locks in.

This is why incidents like the recent LRT-1 case, where a driver who appears to have done nothing wrong is immediately eyed for criminal liability after a tragic accident, resonate deeply with me. I recognize the pattern. I recognize the fear. I recognize that quiet dread of realizing that logic and facts may not be enough.

This is not justice. This is panic looking for a target.

Our system has a habit of confusing injury with criminality. When someone gets hurt, the law does not always ask who was negligent or what actually caused the incident. Too often, it asks, who is nearest and easiest to charge? Presence becomes guilt. Proximity becomes a fault. The concept of reckless imprudence—meant to punish real carelessness—is stretched until it becomes a net that traps the innocent simply because they were there.

And there is a darker consequence to this defect: it has become predictable—and therefore exploitable.

Because the law is vague, because enforcement is sloppy, and because accusation comes easier than investigation, a new class of opportunists has quietly emerged. There are now manufactured “victims”—scammers who stage or exaggerate accidents, who weaponize injury and sympathy, and who know exactly how to trigger fear in motorists. They know that drivers are terrified of detention and criminal records. They know that police intervention often escalates anxiety instead of clarifying truth. And they know that, more often than not, paying is cheaper than proving innocence.

This is no longer just a problem of poor policing. It is a structural failure of the law itself.

That is why this cannot be solved by reminders or internal memos alone. The Legislature must act. Congress must pass a clear, humane, and modern law that draws a firm line between accidents and criminal negligence. A law that explicitly protects motorists who are stationary, compliant, and exercising due care. A law that requires evidence-based investigation before criminal charges are even contemplated. And a law that punishes fabricated claims and staged accidents as crimes in their own right.

Without legislative reform, reckless imprudence will continue to be abused—not to punish wrongdoing, but to extort fear. Without reform, scammers will continue to thrive in the gray areas of the law. And without reform, ordinary Filipinos will keep learning the same bitter lesson I learned years ago: that survival often depends not on truth, but on how quickly you can escape the system.

The law should exist to protect the innocent, not to frighten them into submission. Until Congress confronts this defect head-on, justice will remain negotiable—available only to those who can afford to buy their way out.

And as long as that remains true, the most dangerous thing on Philippine roads will not be reckless driving.

It will be being innocent—and being there.

__________________

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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You Didn’t Lose the Vote—You Lost the Narrative

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

People like to believe that elections are arithmetic—that if you add enough promises, subtract a few scandals, multiply your machinery, and divide the opposition, victory will follow. That belief comforts those who lose. It allows them to blame numbers instead of truth. But elections are not solved on calculators. They are felt in the chest. And when the chest does not believe, the hands do not shade your name.

I have seen this too many times. Good men. Educated women. Decorated public servants. People with résumés thick enough to silence a room. And yet, on election night, silence is exactly what greets them. Not because the people hated them—but because the people never felt them.

In 2016, the country witnessed the clearest proof of how narratives win elections. Rodrigo Duterte did not campaign like a textbook. He did not speak in paragraphs meant to impress experts. He spoke in sentences meant to strike nerves. His story was raw, uncomfortable, and even frightening to some—but it was unmistakably clear. The system was broken. Order had collapsed. The elite had failed. And he presented himself as the answer no one was brave enough to say out loud.

Agree or disagree with the outcome, the lesson is undeniable: people did not vote for Polish; they voted for meaning. They voted for a story that sounded like their anger, their exhaustion, and their hunger for certainty. His opponents explained. He embodied. And embodiment always beats explanation.

This is where most campaigns die—quietly, long before ballots are printed. They die in confused messaging. In speeches that sound different depending on who is listening. In values that shift like furniture before every rally. In candidates who want to be everything to everyone and end up being nothing to anyone.

A defective narrative does not merely weaken a campaign—it insults the voter. It tells people, without saying it, that you have not bothered to understand their lives. Voters are not fools. They know when they are being spoken to instead of being spoken with. They can smell rehearsed empathy. They can hear borrowed convictions. And once they sense that, the connection is gone.

What makes losses truly painful is not the defeat itself—it is the disbelief that follows. The stunned faces. The whispered questions. “We had surveys.” “We had endorsements.” “We had funding.” Yes. But you did not have a story that people could carry home, repeat at dinner, defend in arguments, and believe in when no one was watching.

Politics is not just leadership; it is belonging. Every voter is asking a quiet, deeply human question: Where do I fit in your story? Am I seen? Am I protected? Am I respected? Am I finally heard? When a campaign fails to answer that, voters answer by walking away.

I have watched campaigns obsessed with tearing down opponents while forgetting to build themselves. They believed exposure would convert disbelief into loyalty. It never does. People do not rally around the absence of someone else. They rally around presence—around clarity, courage, and conviction.

A strong narrative does not require moral perfection or flawless execution. It requires truthfulness and discipline. It requires accepting who you are and standing by it even when it costs you applause. The electorate can forgive mistakes. What it will not forgive is confusion.

And so, after every painful loss, before blaming machinery, money, timing, or fate, there is a harder question that must be asked—quietly, honestly, without excuses:

What story did we really tell?

Because ballots are only paper. Votes are acts of faith. And faith is never placed in candidates who do not know their own story.

You didn’t lose the vote.

You lost the narrative.

__________________

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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