When Kaufman Defended Tatay Digong Before the World: Law, Love, and the Fractured Filipino Heart

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

On February 23, 2026, inside the solemn halls of the International Criminal Court, Nicholas Kaufman rose to defend former President Rodrigo Duterte. It was a legal proceeding, structured and procedural. Yet for us Filipinos, it felt heavier than law. It felt personal.

Kaufman spoke of political motivation. He questioned jurisdiction. He defended the anti-drug campaign as the product of a democratic mandate. He appealed to the image of Tatay Digong, not merely as an accused individual, but as a father figure to millions. His words were measured, yet they carried the weight of a nation divided between loyalty and loss.

To analyze this moment fairly, we must hold steady hearts.

It is true that Duterte was elected with overwhelming support. Many Filipinos believed that strong leadership was necessary to confront criminality. Communities plagued by drugs and violence felt heard for the first time. For them, his presidency symbolized order restored and authority reclaimed. This sentiment cannot be dismissed lightly. It represents lived experience and genuine gratitude.

Yet it is also true that serious allegations emerged during the campaign against illegal drugs. Families mourned. Questions were raised. Human rights concerns became part of national and international discourse. These voices cannot be dismissed either. They represent grief and unresolved pain.

Between these realities stands the law.

Kaufman argues that the ICC lacks jurisdiction because the Philippines withdrew from the Rome Statute. This is a legitimate legal argument that the judges must examine carefully. At the same time, established treaty principles suggest that jurisdiction may remain for acts committed while membership was active. The Court will interpret the law. It must do so independently of political pressure and emotional tides.

He also described the charges as politically motivated and linked them to shifting alliances under President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.. Political context undeniably shapes public perception. In the Philippines, history and power are intertwined. But perception alone does not determine guilt or innocence. Evidence does. Procedure does. Judicial reasoning does.

As I reflect on this unfolding chapter, I cannot ignore another dimension. I see a narrative that may now be utilized in the 2028 Presidential Election. The image of a father standing before an international court, the suggestion of persecution, and the appeal to loyalty and sovereignty, these are powerful currents. For supporters of Vice President Sara Duterte, this moment may strengthen a sense of solidarity and continuity. For her political opponents, it may feel like a sudden explosion in the electoral landscape. A narrative, once formed, can travel faster than facts and linger longer than verdicts.

But here lies our greatest responsibility as citizens.

If we allow ourselves to consume this ICC case purely through emotion, we risk altering not just an election but our civic character. If we romanticize without reflection, we may surrender critical thinking to personality. If we condemn without patience, we may surrender justice to anger. When emotion replaces discernment, our national behavior changes. We argue more fiercely, we listen less carefully, and we vote more impulsively.

We must be vigilant.

Let us not be carried away by narratives designed to benefit political families who dominate the national stage. Courtrooms should not become campaign stages. Legal proceedings should not be reduced to dynastic ammunition. The Philippines is not about the Marcoses. The Philippines is not about the Dutertes.

The Philippines is about us Filipinos.

It is about the fisherman who wakes before dawn. It is about the mother who prays for her child’s safety. It is about the student who dreams of a country stronger than its past. It is about whether we choose institutions over personalities, evidence over rumor, and maturity over fanaticism.

When Kaufman defended Tatay Digong before the world, he performed his duty as counsel. The prosecution will perform theirs. The judges will decide based on law. But the deeper verdict will be written in our hearts. Will we allow this moment to divide us further, or will we rise above personality politics and demand both strength and accountability within the rule of law?

If we choose wisdom, then regardless of the outcome, the republic will stand taller. If we choose blind loyalty or blind hatred, the fracture within us will deepen.

In the end, this is not only the trial of a former president. It is the quiet trial of our national conscience. And I pray that when history looks back at this moment, it will say that the Filipino people chose clarity over chaos, unity over dynasty, and country over clan.

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 *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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The Bicam Insertion for Flood Control: Controlling the Flood or Controlling the Funds?

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD

I sat in a budget hearing back in the year 2000, when I was still a consultant for a government agency. I went there with so much idealism, believing that the process I was about to witness was democracy at work. For me, it was more than numbers on paper. It was about lives, about the sweat of ordinary Filipinos converted into taxes, and about the promise that government would return those taxes in the form of services and protection. But in the middle of those long hours of deliberation, I began to notice something strange. Projects that technical people had worked hard to prepare were suddenly being cut. And in their place, new allocations magically appeared—projects that were never part of the plan, never seen in the original proposals, but suddenly defended with such energy by certain lawmakers. That was the first time I heard the word whispered in the halls: insertions. It was a disheartening revelation, the moment when I realized that the budget was not simply a document of priorities but also a tool of politics, easily bent in favor of power.

Fast forward to today, more than two decades later, and the same story continues. Every year, we see billions of pesos allocated for flood control projects. On paper, these funds should protect our communities from the devastation of rising waters. Yet year after year, the floods still come, drowning our streets, destroying our crops, washing away our homes. Each storm exposes how fragile and temporary our defenses are. Dikes collapse, drainage systems clog, pumping stations fail. And still, in the midst of these failures, we hear of billions being inserted into the flood control budget, as though the solution to flooding is to throw more money at it, even if much of that money never reaches the ground.

I will never forget September 26, 2009, when Typhoon Ondoy poured a month’s worth of rain on Metro Manila in a single day. That morning, I was supposed to attend my graduate school class in the boundary of Quezon City and Manila, but I decided to stay home. I was irritated with an old lady co-faculty member who had been spreading rumors about me, and I thought it best to avoid the added stress. That irritation, as it turned out, became my unexpected blessing. Because I stayed home, both I and my newly bought pyreneese black Mitsubishi Adventure were spared from the floodwaters that swallowed streets and stranded countless vehicles. I remember standing by the window in our overlooking house in the mountains of San Mateo, Rizal watching rivers of muddy water rushing through the roads, and realizing how close I had come to disaster. In that moment, I understood that survival often hangs on the thinnest of chances, and that the true tragedy is when government repeatedly fails to turn billions of pesos into lasting protection for its people.

The Ondoy tragedy was supposed to change everything. We thought it was our wake-up call, the disaster that would finally push our leaders to say “never again.” Billions were poured into flood control after that. Yet here we are, fifteen years later, still telling the same story.

And it wasn’t just Ondoy. Yolanda in 2013 tore through the Visayas with storm surges so massive that they erased entire communities. Ulysses in 2020 reminded Marikina and Cagayan Valley of Ondoy’s nightmare, as waters rose quickly and mercilessly. Paeng in 2022 left trails of mud and mourning. Egay in 2023 submerged northern Luzon. Carina in 2024 forced thousands into evacuation centers yet again. Each storm was a reminder, each storm a test, and each storm a missed opportunity. Because despite all the money allocated for flood control, we never truly learned how to solve flooding once and for all.

When Senator Ping Lacson delivered his privilege speech titled “Flooded Gates of Corruption,” he put into words what many of us have long felt. From 2023 to 2025 alone, more than a trillion pesos was allocated for flood control. In Oriental Mindoro, he uncovered projects worth nearly two billion pesos, where only a fraction came from the President’s budget and more than a billion appeared later as insertions in the House. He spoke about ghost projects and substandard works. He described how money intended to save lives was siphoned into kickbacks and commissions. In his words, only about forty percent of flood control funds actually go into real projects. The rest is eaten away by greed. And his warning rang clear: more than flood control, what the Filipino people need is greed control.

This is why, no matter how much money we pour into flood control, the waters keep coming back. Because the problem is not just engineering—it is governance. Flood control has become politically attractive because it is highly visible. A new dike can be photographed, a drainage project can be inaugurated, a ribbon can be cut. But permanence is different. Permanent solutions require vision, planning, and sacrifice. They require watershed rehabilitation, reforestation, relocation of entire communities, and urban planning that anticipates climate change. They require confronting the fact that development has often been reckless, with houses and malls built on waterways, mountains stripped of forests, and rivers left to choke in silt. Those are not projects that can be rushed before elections. They are not glamorous. And most importantly, they do not generate the same kind of political currency that temporary “control” projects do.

What makes it more painful is that the cost is always borne by ordinary Filipinos. The vendor who watches her small stall float away, the tricycle driver whose vehicle is submerged and ruined, the farmer whose rice field is drowned just before harvest, the child who must leave school because his family is displaced—these are the people who pay for the insertions. Each flood is not just water; it is betrayal. It is the visible face of corruption, the proof that money meant to protect us was diverted somewhere else.

I think back to Ondoy, to Yolanda, to Ulysses, to Paeng, Egay, and Carina, and I see not only natural disasters but opportunities wasted. Each storm should have been a turning point. Each one should have been the last time we said “never again.” And yet each time, we went back to business as usual. We poured billions more into the same broken system, allowing insertions to thrive, allowing greed to masquerade as governance.

It is easy to say floods are inevitable, that typhoons are acts of God. But I cannot accept that anymore. Flooding on this scale is not purely natural; it is political. It is the result of choices made in budget hearings, of deals struck in bicameral conferences, of projects inserted without merit, and of funds stolen instead of spent. The water may rise because of rain, but it lingers because of corruption.

That day in 2000, when I first heard the word insertion, I thought it was just a small detail in the complexity of government. But now, after Ondoy and every storm since, I realize it was more than a detail. It was a shadow cast over our democracy. A shadow that stretches from the halls of Congress to the homes of flood victims. A shadow that will not be lifted until we confront the truth: that no amount of money can save us from floods if the system itself is flooded with greed.

Ergo, the question of whether or not the floods can ever be prevented is one that we frequently ask. I have faith that they are able to. There are other nations that have done it. Some countries, such as the Netherlands, Japan, and even Singapore, have demonstrated that flood control and prevention together water flow management and community protection are possible via careful planning, discipline, and honesty. However, there is one thing that we have not yet accomplished: leaders who prioritize the well-being of their constituents before political considerations and monetary gains. Up to that point, each and every bicam insertion will not merely be a line item in the budget; rather, it will be another stone that is placed on the back of the Filipino people, another reason why the waters continue to rise and won't go down.

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 *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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