Years from now, historians assessing the presidency of Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. will inevitably compare him with his father. One contrast may stand out. Ferdinand Marcos Sr.’s regime became globally known for repression and plunder. His son’s presidency may be remembered for something quite different: authorizing the arrest and surrender of his predecessor, Rodrigo Duterte, to the International Criminal Court (ICC).
That decision—politically risky and unprecedented—may yet prove to be the most consequential act of his administration. Its broader implications come back into view this week, as the ICC’s Pre-Trial Chamber convenes in The Hague from Feb. 23 to 27 to determine whether the charges against Duterte should proceed to trial.
This is not yet the trial. The judges will decide only whether the prosecution has presented sufficient evidence to confirm the charges. If they do, a separate trial chamber will hear the case in full. Duterte has chosen not to attend this confirmation stage, reiterating his position that the ICC has no jurisdiction and that he has been unlawfully brought before it.
For the defense, clearly, two legal issues remain central: jurisdiction and admissibility. Jurisdiction concerns timing and authority. Did the alleged crimes occur while the Philippines was still a state party to the Rome Statute? Does withdrawal from the treaty erase obligations already incurred?
Admissibility, on the other hand, concerns what is known as the principle of complementarity. The ICC was designed as a court of last resort. National courts retain primary jurisdiction. The ICC steps in only when a state is “unwilling or unable” genuinely to investigate or prosecute. If Philippine authorities were conducting credible proceedings against Duterte for the same alleged acts, the Court would have no basis to proceed.
These may sound like technical distinctions, but they are essential and lie at the core of the concept of an international court. The ICC does not inquire into a country’s political motives or pass judgment on the overall health of its political and legal institutions. It applies very specific legal standards. Was there a genuine investigation? Was there shielding? Was there unjustified delay? The inquiry is confined to what the Rome Statute itself requires.
Public debate, however, rarely stays confined; the potential reaction can be broad. The Court’s involvement can easily be framed as an affront to a nation’s sovereignty, as though submitting to its processes were an admission of national failure. National pride is all-too-easily invoked. Yet pride can be misdirected. It is one thing to defend the independence of our institutions; it is another to put an individual beyond scrutiny and accountability in the name of that independence.
The ICC was created because certain crimes—genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes—are understood to injure not only their immediate victims but the wider human community. When conduct is classified in this way, it acquires a significance that transcends borders. States that joined the Rome Statute did so in recognition that some forms of violence demand a tribunal larger than any single nation can provide.
Prosecuting a former head of state places extraordinary strain on any domestic system. It tests the independence of prosecutors, the protection of witnesses, and the stability of political alliances. Few countries can navigate such cases without risking political instability. Complementarity was crafted with this reality in mind. It preserves the primary jurisdiction of national courts while providing a residual mechanism when domestic processes cannot move forward in a legally credible way.
For this reason, the question of rejoining the ICC deserves sober reflection. Membership expresses confidence that the rule of law extends beyond immediate political convenience. It situates the Philippines within a widening community of states that have agreed to hold one another to shared standards when the gravest crimes are alleged. At a time when power, violence, and impunity often travel across borders, the global human community is no longer a distant ideal. It has become part of the necessary architecture of justice.
A nation’s dignity does not rest on insulation from scrutiny, but on the steadiness of its commitment to accountability. If we believe that no office confers permanent immunity, then participation in institutions designed to uphold that principle should not be seen as weakness or failure. It is, rather, a way of affirming that justice, whether at home or abroad, ultimately serves the same end: the protection of human life under the law.
—————-
