If This Is Contempt, Then We Are All Guilty: An Analysis of Indirect Contempt, Criticism, and Power

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

I remember sitting quietly one afternoon, scrolling through my phone, watching a familiar scene unfold yet again. Someone had criticized the Supreme Court sharply, emotionally, and perhaps even unfairly. Within hours, defenders appeared. Not judges. Not justices. Ordinary citizens, keyboards in hand, furious in tone, declaring that a contempt case must be filed. As if the Court needed saving. As if offense alone was already a crime. That moment stayed with me, not because of what was said about the Court, but because of how quickly we confuse anger with justice.

That is where this analysis begins, through the eyes of a political whiner.

I speak not as a lawyer, nor as someone hiding behind legal technicalities, but as a private citizen, an educator, a former municipal legislator, a public safety and law enforcement professor and researcher, a political analyst, and a hopeless romantic who just recently found loving a siopao complex with a pancit curly noodle beauty, who has spent years observing how institutions behave under pressure. I call myself a political whiner not to trivialize the argument but to be honest about the role I occupy. Someone who complains because silence, when power is misused, feels like quiet consent.

When people hear "indirect contempt of court," they often assume it is about insult. About disrespect. About someone crossing an invisible line and bruising the pride of the judiciary. But contempt, especially indirect contempt, is not about feelings. It was never meant to be.

Indirect contempt exists for one reason alone: to protect the administration of justice. Not the ego of judges. Not the prestige of institutions. And certainly not the emotions of private citizens who feel compelled to be offended on the court’s behalf.

It is true that a private citizen may file a petition for indirect contempt. But this procedural allowance is frequently misunderstood and, at times, dangerously abused. Filing a petition does not mean contempt exists. It does not establish wrongdoing. It does not even obligate the court to act. At most, it is an invitation asking the court to take a second look. The existence of contempt begins and ends with the court itself.

This is because the offended party in contempt is never the filer. It is the court.

Courts are expected to endure criticism, even harsh criticism, even unfair criticism. A judiciary that collapses under dissent was never strong to begin with. Judges are not fragile officials who require constant public defense. If judicial authority is truly threatened, if justice is being obstructed, the court will recognize it without the need for intermediaries or self-appointed defenders.

This is precisely why the present indirect contempt petition involving Senate President Tito Sotto deserves careful public attention. The petition was triggered by his public criticism of a Supreme Court ruling, criticism delivered in his capacity as a political stakeholder responding to a constitutional controversy. Whether one agrees with his tone or not, the core question is not whether the Court was embarrassed or disagreed with him, but whether his statements actually posed a clear and present danger to the administration of justice. Jurisprudence has long drawn this line carefully. Courts have consistently held that criticism, even intemperate criticism, is not contempt unless it creates a real risk of obstructing judicial proceedings or undermining judicial authority in a substantive and imminent way. To treat political disagreement as contempt is to confuse dissent with defiance and commentary with coercion.

If criticism alone is now to be treated as indirect contempt, then intellectual honesty requires consistency. By that logic, I myself must also be guilty. I have written this analysis and other articles openly. I have examined, questioned, and even agreed with the statement and principle articulated by Senate President Tito Sotto in disagreeing with the Supreme Court’s decision. If academic critique, policy commentary, and principled disagreement are enough to constitute contempt, then every educator, researcher, columnist, and thinking citizen becomes vulnerable. That conclusion is not only absurd. It is dangerous. It transforms contempt from a narrow judicial safeguard into a broad instrument of silence, where agreement with a dissenting view becomes punishable not because it obstructs justice, but because it dares to question power.

The danger begins when criticism alone is treated as contempt. When courts are urged to cite individuals simply because their words are uncomfortable, embarrassing, or politically inconvenient, the line between justice and intimidation erodes. Debate gives way to fear. Dissent becomes silence. Citizens begin to measure their words not by truth, but by personal risk. When contempt is misused this way, it no longer protects the judiciary. It shields power from accountability.

There is an even deeper danger that must be confronted. When private individuals repeatedly invoke indirect contempt against critics without any real obstruction of justice, the court itself risks being bastardized. It becomes an unwilling instrument of harassment, dragged into personal vendettas, political rivalries, and loyalty tests. The judiciary was never meant to be a venue for political score settling or personal grievance airing. When it is used this way, judicial dignity is not defended. It is quietly eroded.

At the same time, it must be said clearly. The absence of a private filing does not weaken the court. If an act or publication genuinely undermines judicial authority or obstructs the administration of justice, the court, guided by law, experience, and institutional wisdom, may act motu proprio. In such cases, contempt is not triggered by outrage but by necessity. The court acts not because it feels insulted, but because justice itself is at risk.

This is why speech-based indirect contempt carries the highest threshold. Words alone, no matter how sharp or provocative, are not enough. There must be a real, clear, and present danger to the administration of justice. Not imagined. Not emotional. Real.

Often, the most misunderstood judicial response is silence. Silence is mistaken for fear, weakness, or tolerance of disrespect. But more often than not, silence is restraint. And restraint is not surrender. It is confidence.

In a democracy, institutions prove their strength not by how quickly they punish criticism, but by how calmly they withstand it. When a court chooses not to react, it may not be because it failed to notice the criticism. It may be because it understood that not every loud voice deserves the full weight of judicial power.

So yes, I am a political whiner. I complain because I care. I question because I refuse to confuse authority with infallibility. And I believe that the judiciary is strongest not when it silences its critics, but when it shows the discipline to rise above them.

That, to me, is the true meaning of indirect contempt. No offense. Not pride. But restraint in the exercise of power.

__________________

*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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VP Sara Duterte and the Risk of a Sure Win: On Power, Loyalty, and the Politics of Subtraction

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

If the election were held today—this February, this March, this very moment—it would be dishonest to deny the truth staring us in the face: Sara Duterte would be the frontrunner and sure winner. Her popularity is not imagined. It is felt. You hear it in conversations in tricycles, jeepney terminals, sari-sari stores, eateries like the Inopia Eatery located in Modesta Village, San Mateo, Rizal, and in family dinners where politics quietly enters the room. You see it in the sympathy that followed what happened to her father, in the emotions stirred by the ICC issue, and in the anger, the loyalty, and the sense of injustice many Filipinos carry in their hearts. All of that translated into numbers. Real numbers. Winning numbers.

And because she stands there—strong, visible, almost inevitable—people begin to circle.

This is how politics works. When someone looks like a sure winner, the noise grows louder. Politicians suddenly remember your name. Old allies return. New supporters emerge from nowhere. Everyone wants to be seen. Everyone wants to be close. Not always out of belief, but out of hope—hope for a position, for access, for protection, for a future seat at the table when power finally changes hands.

But here is the painful part that we rarely say out loud.

Sometimes, the people who shout the loudest in support are the very ones who quietly wound the candidate they claim to love.

I have spoken to ordinary Filipinos—neutral people, walang kinakapitan, walang hinihintay na pwesto—and their sadness is consistent. They say, “Gusto ko sana siya.” They admire the strength, the resolve, and the familiarity. But then they look around her. They see faces they recognize for the wrong reasons. Names associated with old scandals. Figures whispered about in stories of corruption, abuse, greed, and moral decay. And suddenly, love hesitates.

In their hearts, a fear begins to grow.

Because Filipinos know this lesson too well: when a leader wins, it is often not the leader who first benefits—but the people around her. The operators. The survivors of every administration. The political parasites who attach themselves to power and drain it until nothing is left but disappointment.

This is why politics is not always a battle of candidates. More often, it is a battle of supporters.

Hindi si Sara ang tinatanggihan ng ilan. Ang tinatanggihan nila ay ang mga mukhang nakapaligid sa kanya. Ang mga taong nag-iingay ngayon ay hindi dahil sa prinsipyo, kundi dahil sa pag-asa na sila ang mauuna sa pila kapag dumating ang tagumpay. And for many voters, that realization hurts deeply. Because they want to believe. They want to hope. But they have been burned too many times.

We have seen this political scenario before.

There was a time when another vice president looked unstoppable. The numbers were overwhelming. The momentum felt permanent. People said, “Sure win na ’yan.” And yet, as the years passed, the questions piled up. The issues were not answered. The shadows grew longer. And little by little, the numbers slipped away—not in one dramatic fall, but in quiet decisions made at kitchen tables and jeepney rides home.

Today, something similar feels dangerously possible.

Yes, her numbers rise. But they also bleed—slowly, silently. Not always because of what she says or does, but because of who refuses to step back from her shadow. Because of allies who treat her popularity as a personal shield. Because of supporters who attack critics instead of persuading them, who insult instead of listening, and who threaten instead of explaining.

And if this pattern continues—if the loudest voices claiming to love her are the same voices that keep destroying her through arrogance—then the danger becomes real. When supporters choose insult over persuasion, humiliation over dialogue, and character assassination over principle, they do not weaken the opposition—they weaken her. Every political opponent mocked instead of engaged, every ally burned instead of protected, and every supporter of another candidate maligned instead of won over is a lost opportunity. Elections are not won by shouting enemies into silence; they are won by convincing doubters, by drawing neutrals into belief, and by showing that leadership is built on principles, track record, and acceptability—not rage. If the battlefield remains one of personal attacks rather than accomplishments and ideas, then the dream of 2028 will not collapse overnight. It will fade quietly. Slowly. Until one morning, the nation wakes up to a surprise winner—someone no one expected—while the strongest candidate wonders how a sure victory slipped away without a single decisive blow.

And now, new names begin to surface. Not loud. Not dominant. Just steady. Just present. Taking small numbers here and there. In politics, those small losses matter. They accumulate. They decide elections.

This is the Filipino dilemma in its rawest form: “Gusto ko sana siyang iboto… pero kapag nanalo siya, sino ang makikinabang? ” That single question is enough to change a vote, enough to break momentum, and enough to turn certainty into doubt.

Perhaps this is not a criticism but a quiet plea. A moment for reflection. Because politics today is no longer just about strength—it is about trust. And trust is fragile. You cannot choose all your followers, yes. But you can choose who represents you. You can choose who stands closest. You can choose who speaks in your name.

In the end, many Filipinos do not abandon a candidate out of hatred. They walk away out of fear—fear that history will repeat itself, fear that power will once again be captured by the wrong hands.

And sometimes, the most painful losses in politics do not come from enemies—but from supporters who subtract where they should have added.

__________________

*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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Vicente Sotto Sr. and Vicente Sotto III: From 1949 to 2026, When Questioning Power Is Called Contempt

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

I watched the video on social media invoking the 1949 Senator Vicente Yap Sotto Sr. contempt case, and instead of fear, what I felt was sadness. Not outrage. Do not panic. Just a heavy, familiar sadness that comes when the law is no longer being explained to enlighten but being performed to impress. You could feel it in the tone, in the certainty, and in the eagerness to end the conversation rather than deepen it. History was not being remembered—it was being used. And not carefully.

The message was clear: “May precedent na. Tapos na ang usapan.” As if law were a spell you chant, not a discipline you understand. As if the Constitution were a hammer you swing, not a covenant you protect. And quietly, beneath it all, there was another message—notice me. Notice that I filed something. Notice that I defended someone powerful. Notice that I am on the “right side.” Preferably noticed by the political frontrunner in the 2028 Presidential Election which is now in the impeachment hot seat.

That, more than anything, is what broke my hopeless romantic heart.

Because the 1949 case was never meant to be a weapon for attention. It was a warning. It was history saying, "Do not use power to bully the judiciary." It was about intimidation, about hovering threats, about a legislator hinting that the Court could be reorganized if it did not behave. It was not about disagreement. It was not about asking hard questions. It was not about constitutional grief.

What Senate President Vicente Sotto III did could not be more different. He did not insult the justices. He did not accuse them of bad faith. He did not threaten them with Congress. He asked a question that many Filipinos have been quietly asking since the ruling came out: Has impeachment been closed before it even had a chance to breathe? That question did not come from malice. It came from concern. From care. From a belief that accountability should not be quietly buried under technical finality.

But concern does not trend. Drama does.

So suddenly, there is a contempt petition. Suddenly, 1949 is back from the grave, dressed up as relevance. Suddenly, history is dragged into 2026, not to teach, but to scare. Not to clarify, but to silence. And watching it, I could not help but feel that this was less about defending the Supreme Court of the Philippines and more about being seen defending someone powerful.

And here is the fact that is often skipped, softened, or deliberately blurred: in the 1949 Vicente Sotto case, there were absolutely no private complainants. No lawyers filed a petition. No citizens asked for relief. No political allies rushed to the court. The contempt case was initiated by the Supreme Court itself, motu proprio, after it took offense at Sotto’s published criticism. The Court was, at the same time, the offended party, the initiator of the charge, and the tribunal that decided it. That historical detail matters. It shows that the 1949 case was born out of institutional sensitivity, not public agitation.

Today, the situation is fundamentally different. In 2026, the Supreme Court is not acting on its own. It is being urged to act by private and political complainants—individuals who voluntarily step forward to file petitions, to put their names on record, to be seen, to be heard, and to be noticed. One was a Court reacting to criticism. The other is a Court being invited into a political performance. Conflating the two is not just sloppy history; it is misleading.

It feels like an audition masquerading as jurisprudence.

What hurts even more is how this cheapens the Court itself. The Supreme Court does not need flattery. It does not need overzealous defenders filing petitions to prove loyalty. It needs trust. And trust is built when institutions are strong enough to endure questions, not when questions are punished.

Even the irony is painful. The very 1949 decision being cited so loudly also said—clearly—that criticism of judicial acts is punishable only when it poses a clear and present danger to the administration of justice. Not when it is uncomfortable. Not when it embarrasses. Not when it challenges interpretation. Yet that part is conveniently forgotten, like an inconvenient paragraph skipped because it ruins the narrative.

And look at how Senate President Sotto responded. No threats. No counterattacks. No chest-thumping. He said he would wait for the official copy. He said he would respond when asked. That is not contempt. That is restraint. That is someone still treating institutions with respect even when those institutions are being stretched.

Meanwhile, respected voices—retired justices, law deans, professors, and historians—have raised the same questions. Are they all guilty too? Or is the sin really just speaking out loud what many are thinking quietly?

What frightens me is not the petition itself. It will pass. What frightens me is the lesson being taught: be careful when you ask questions. Choose silence if you want peace. That lesson does not stop with senators. It reaches classrooms, newsrooms, and dinner tables. It teaches citizens that democracy is safest when whispered.

And that is how democracies don’t collapse. They fade.

I do not believe everyone who filed that petition is acting in bad faith. But I do believe that ambition has a way of disguising itself as principle. And I believe the law deserves better than to be used as a calling card.

History should humble us, not embolden our ego. The 1949 case warned against intimidation. It did not authorize the policing of doubt. Turning it into a tool for relevance does not protect the Court. It erodes the very dignity it claims to defend.

Questioning the Court is not contempt. But using the Court to be noticed—especially at the expense of constitutional courage—that is a different kind of tragedy.

__________________

*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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