*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD,EdD
Last year, I visited a nursing home where I met an 80-year-old retired police officer. Once, he was the embodiment of strength, discipline, and service. He had led men in the field, carried the weight of responsibility, and stood tall as a protector of society. Yet as I sat across from him, I saw a man slowly losing pieces of himself. His words often trailed off mid-sentence, his memory flickered like a fading light, and at times he did not even recognize where he was. I remember holding his hand as he tried to recall his own stories—stories that once defined his very identity. In that moment, I realized how fragile the human mind truly is, and how quickly time can strip away the sharpness that once made a man unshakable.
That image returns to me now as I read the reports about former President Rodrigo Duterte’s condition. His legal counsel describes a man no longer in command of his faculties—struggling with memory lapses, confusion, fatigue, and disorientation. It is painful to imagine, because regardless of what one thinks of his politics, Duterte was once a figure of tremendous power, influence, and even fear. To see him now described in such terms is to be reminded that power is temporary, and that in the end, we are all subject to the frailties of age.
Yet while I recognize this frailty, I cannot and will not forget those who cry for justice. I sympathize deeply with the families of the thousands of victims of extrajudicial killings during Duterte’s drug war. Their wounds remain open, their nights remain restless, their longing for truth and accountability remains unfulfilled. They deserve their day in a fair venue of justice. Whether or not Duterte is ultimately found guilty of crimes against humanity, they deserve to know the truth. Justice must not be denied them—but justice must also be pursued in a way that honors the humanity of all involved, even the accused.
Here, I find wisdom in Scripture: “Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream” (Amos 5:24). Justice, to be true, must flow with righteousness—meaning it cannot be selective, cruel, or stripped of compassion. Similarly, the ancient philosopher Cicero once reminded us that “the welfare of the people is the ultimate law” (Salus populi suprema lex). For the people—the victims, the families, the nation at large—justice must be done, but not at the cost of dehumanizing even the one accused.
This is where the International Criminal Court faces its greatest test. A courtroom that ignores the mental state of the accused ceases to be a place of fairness. If Duterte is indeed in decline, then forcing him to undergo trial without proper assessment risks turning justice into vengeance. At the same time, if he is fit enough to stand trial, then let the proceedings move forward swiftly so that victims may finally hear the truth. Justice loses its moral foundation if it disregards either side of the equation—both the rights of the victims and the dignity of the accused.
I appeal to my fellow Filipinos, whether you admired Duterte or opposed him, to look beyond politics for a moment. Think of your own grandfather, father, or even an elder you once knew—imagine them sitting confused in a cold courtroom, unable to grasp what was happening around them. Would you not feel the urge to shield them, even as they are made accountable? Accountability does not mean cruelty. Justice, if it is true, must be both firm and humane.
Duterte’s case forces us to confront difficult truths. It reminds us that leadership and mortality are not opposites—they coexist. A man who once commanded soldiers, threatened enemies, and made nations listen is now facing the slow erosion of his mind. This is not just a legal issue; it is a profoundly human story. The real test is not whether the ICC can pursue its case, but whether it can do so without abandoning the moral foundation of justice itself.
As I recall the old police officer I once met—grasping for memories slipping through his hands—I realize that age humbles everyone. No position, no title, no history can shield us from decline. That truth should not frighten us; it should teach us to treat others with compassion, even when justice must be done. Because if we allow justice to become blind to mercy, then what we create is not justice—it is vengeance dressed in legal robes.
Let us, therefore, be a people who demand accountability for
the victims of EJKs, who insist that the truth be told, but who also remain
capable of compassion for the frailties of an aging man. For this is the way of
Timpuyog Pilipinas—to choose unity over division, love over hate, justice over
vengeance. If justice is to be our nation’s light, then it must shine with both
truth and humanity. Only then will it serve not just the victims, not just the
accused, but the conscience of an entire nation.
