The wood-paneled courtroom in The Hague fell silent as the clerk’s voice cut through the air: “The Pre-Trial Chamber I of the International Criminal Court hereby confirms all charges against Rodrigo Roa Duterte and commits the former Philippine president to trial.” It was a moment years in the making—one that could redefine the boundaries of international justice, or expose its limits.
For the first time in history, a sitting or former head of state from Southeast Asia will face the ICC’s full judicial process. The charges—crimes against humanity tied to Duterte’s brutal war on drugs—are not novel, but the selection of the three judges who will preside over the trial marks a critical inflection point. Their names, announced last week, are more than just procedural footnotes. They are the architects of a legal reckoning that could either fortify the ICC’s credibility or deepen the fractures in its global standing.
The Judges Who Will Shape a Landmark Trial
The ICC’s Presidency, led by Polish judge Piotr Hofmański, has tapped three jurists to oversee the case: Judge Reine Alapini-Gansou of Benin, Judge María del Socorro Flores Liera of Mexico, and Judge Péter Kovács of Hungary. Their backgrounds are as diverse as the legal traditions they represent—a deliberate choice, experts say, to insulate the trial from accusations of Western bias.
Alapini-Gansou, the presiding judge, is no stranger to high-stakes prosecutions. A former president of the ICC’s Trust Fund for Victims, she has handled cases involving child soldiers and sexual violence in conflict zones. Her rulings are known for their meticulous attention to victim testimony—a critical factor in a trial where thousands of families allege their loved ones were extrajudicially killed under Duterte’s orders.
Flores Liera, meanwhile, brings a Latin American perspective shaped by her work on the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, where she confronted state-sponsored violence in Mexico and Central America. Her presence on the bench may signal a willingness to scrutinize the systemic failures that enabled Duterte’s drug war to spiral into a campaign of terror.
Kovács, the lone male judge on the panel, is a veteran of international law with a reputation for skepticism toward expansive interpretations of the ICC’s jurisdiction. His 2019 dissent in the Afghanistan situation—where he argued the court should not pursue U.S. Forces—hints at a cautious approach. Legal analysts suggest his role could be pivotal in navigating the Philippines’ repeated challenges to the ICC’s authority, including its 2019 withdrawal from the Rome Statute.
“This is not just a trial about Duterte. It’s a trial about whether the ICC can hold powerful leaders accountable when their own countries refuse to act. The judges’ decisions will set precedents for how the court handles future cases involving state-sponsored violence.”
— David Kaye, former UN Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Opinion and Expression, in an interview with Just Security
The Ghosts of Manila’s Streets
The charges against Duterte stem from his presidency’s “war on drugs,” a campaign that human rights groups estimate left between 12,000 and 30,000 dead—many in police operations later deemed “extrajudicial killings” by the UN Human Rights Office. The ICC’s investigation, launched in 2021, zeroed in on the period between July 2016 and March 2019, when Duterte’s rhetoric—including public calls to “kill” drug suspects—coincided with a surge in violence.
But the trial’s scope extends beyond the body count. Prosecutors allege a “widespread and systematic attack” against civilians, citing patterns of police impunity, the use of “death squads,” and the targeting of poor communities. One damning piece of evidence: a 2017 Senate hearing where then-Police Chief Ronald dela Rosa admitted that officers were instructed to “shoot to kill” if suspects resisted arrest. (Dela Rosa, now a senator, has denied wrongdoing and called the ICC’s case “politically motivated.”)
The Philippines’ current government, led by President Ferdinand Marcos Jr., has walked a tightrope on the issue. Although Marcos has reiterated his predecessor’s refusal to cooperate with the ICC, his administration has as well signaled a shift in tone. In 2023, the Philippine National Police announced a “recalibration” of its anti-drug operations, emphasizing “due process” and “respect for human rights.” Critics, however, dismiss the move as cosmetic, pointing to the continued killings of activists and journalists under Marcos’ watch.
A Trial That Could Break—or Break—the ICC
The Duterte case arrives at a precarious moment for the ICC. The court, already grappling with limited enforcement power and accusations of selective justice, faces a daunting challenge: securing Duterte’s presence in The Hague. The Philippines, which revoked its ICC membership in 2019, has no legal obligation to surrender him. And while the ICC can issue an arrest warrant, its ability to enforce it depends on the cooperation of member states—a fraught proposition given Duterte’s lingering influence in the region.
There’s also the question of political fallout. A conviction could embolden other victims of state violence to seek justice through international courts, but an acquittal—or a failed prosecution—could deal a severe blow to the ICC’s legitimacy. Some legal scholars warn that the case may already be a “test of the court’s relevance”, particularly in the Global South, where skepticism of Western-led institutions runs deep.
Then there’s the matter of Duterte’s allies. Despite his retirement from politics, the former president remains a kingmaker in the Philippines, with his daughter, Sara Duterte, serving as vice president. His supporters, including a vocal bloc in Congress, have framed the ICC’s case as an affront to national sovereignty—a narrative that resonates in a country where anti-colonial sentiment still shapes public opinion.
“The ICC is walking a razor’s edge. If it fails to deliver justice in this case, it risks being seen as a paper tiger. But if it succeeds, it could trigger a backlash from governments that see the court as a threat to their power.”
— John Pangilinan, professor of international law at the University of the Philippines, in a Rappler op-ed
The Unanswered Question: What Happens Next?
The trial’s timeline remains uncertain. Legal experts predict a multi-year process, with pre-trial motions, witness testimonies, and appeals stretching into the late 2020s. Duterte’s legal team is expected to challenge the ICC’s jurisdiction at every turn, while prosecutors will lean on the court’s 2021 ruling that the Philippines’ withdrawal from the Rome Statute does not absolve it of responsibility for crimes committed while it was a member.
For the families of the victims, the wait is agonizing. Cristina Palabay, secretary-general of the human rights group Karapatan, told Archyde that the trial’s mere existence offers a sliver of hope—but only if it leads to tangible consequences. “We’ve seen too many investigations that go nowhere,” she said. “This time, we need more than just words.”
As the judges prepare to convene, one thing is clear: the Duterte trial is about more than one man’s legacy. It’s a test of whether the international legal system can hold powerful leaders to account—or whether impunity will continue to reign, unchecked, in the shadows of global justice.
So here’s the question that lingers: If the ICC can’t secure justice for the thousands who died in Manila’s streets, what does that say about the world’s ability to protect the vulnerable? And if Duterte walks free, who will be next?
