Bring justice home

By Herman M. Lagon

Justice does not travel well when it is wrapped only in slogans.

This reflection feels especially apt as we mark the 40th anniversary of the EDSA People Power Revolution on February 25. Four decades ago, Filipinos filled a highway not merely to chant, but to insist that institutions must answer to the people. That moment was not just about removing a dictator marked by corruption, repression, and documented human rights violations — including extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearances, torture, and arbitrary detention. It was about restoring accountability to the center of public life.

“Bring him home” has become a rallying cry online. It competes with another refrain — justice for victims. Between them is the ICC’s confirmation of charges hearing. It is not a final judgment. It is a preliminary test: is there enough evidence to justify a full trial?

That test comes from the Rome Statute, which asks whether there are “substantial grounds to believe” the accused committed the crimes charged. Confirmed charges mean trial. Unconfirmed charges mean closure. The hearing, set February 23–27, 2026, before Judges Motoc, Alapini-Gansou, and Flores Liera, moved forward after the Chamber addressed fitness concerns and arranged medical accommodations. These steps may appear procedural. They are essential guardrails.

For Filipinos — especially educators guiding civic discussions — the discomfort is real. Why an international court? Why not domestic courts first? Duterte senators point to sovereignty and constitutional protections. Those arguments deserve engagement. So does a clear understanding of how international law operates when accountability crosses borders. They are also correct that Republic Act No. 9851 criminalizes crimes against humanity in domestic law. Those are serious arguments, not noise. Yet the ICC process exists precisely because international law anticipates situations where domestic accountability is questioned or perceived as insufficient. Complementarity is not a humiliation clause. It is a safeguard in global justice architecture.

The confirmation of charges hearing is, therefore, not a spectacle of foreigners judging Filipinos. It is a forum where prosecutors must present evidence, where defense counsel must respond, and where judges must decide if the evidentiary threshold is met. Nothing more. Nothing less.

That said, it is not an abstract legal seminar either. On the second day, prosecutors brought up cases many Filipinos still carry in their gut, including the 2017 killing of 17-year-old Kian delos Santos. CCTV footage challenged the claim that he fought back, and Philippine courts later convicted three officers for murder — an uncommon moment when accountability held. For many of us, Kian’s name is not an argument; it is a face. Families gathered at the University of the Philippines Diliman to watch the livestream from The Hague, their grief eight years old yet undiminished. When prosecutors describe alleged patterns — lists, operations, the use of the word “neutralize,” claims of copy-paste police reports — they are not delivering theater. They are presenting material the judges must evaluate.

Still, fairness requires that the defense be heard. Lead counsel Nicholas Kaufman has maintained that the charges are politically motivated and that speeches cited by the prosecution reflect hyperbole, not policy. The defense earlier sought an adjournment over fitness concerns. The judges denied indefinite delay but imposed accommodations. That balance — allowing counsel to argue, requiring prosecutors to substantiate, and adjusting proceedings to protect health — demonstrates something often lost in online debate: the ICC is proceeding cautiously.

Critics online have argued that health claims can be used as a shield to delay accountability. Others counter that no accused person should be forced to participate if medically unfit. The Chamber addressed that tension by relying on medical experts and by structuring hearings to three hours per day, with hourly breaks. That approach signals that the court is neither indifferent to health nor naive about delay. It is threading a narrow path.

The loudest social media arguments have also revealed an odd contradiction. Some demand postponements while simultaneously demanding immediate release. Others insist that detention should continue until all questions are resolved. Beneath the noise lies a simple principle: justice delayed can erode both prosecution and defense. Witnesses age. Memories fade. Public trust shifts. Courts are aware of this. So are teachers who have graded late submissions and watched how time distorts clarity.

There is another uncomfortable truth: popularity does not determine criminal responsibility. Neither does unpopularity. Surveys, applause, and rallies are not evidentiary standards. Law is stubbornly indifferent to fandom. If anything, the confirmation hearing underscores that the prosecution must establish substantial grounds through documents, testimony, and legal reasoning. The defense must test those claims. Judges must weigh them. That is how accountability moves from rhetoric to record.

In the classroom, this moment feels personal. Students are used to politics as punchlines and trending hashtags. The ICC hearing, shown online with a delay, feels almost boring by comparison — slow, careful, deliberate. That contrast is the lesson. It moves slowly because it is built to protect fairness. In a society conditioned to demand instant outrage and instant conclusions, that slowness can feel like a letdown. It is also the lesson itself.

Calling it a good beginning is not a guilty verdict in disguise. It is an acknowledgment that justice begins with procedure. In court, arguments are tested by rules, not popularity. If the charges are confirmed, a trial follows and the proof must meet a high bar. If they are rejected, the proceedings conclude at the screening stage. Either way, a basic principle stands: public office and political power do not cancel scrutiny.

There is a quiet discipline in this stage that social media rarely rewards. It asks both sides to step away from performance and stay with the record. The prosecution alleges widespread, systematic killings. The defense disputes a criminal policy and challenges the evidence. The judges decide whether the threshold is met. Meanwhile, in barangays where names are spoken during candlelight vigils, families are not waiting for clever lines. They are waiting for something sturdier: clarity.

Bringing justice home does not mean moving bodies across borders. It means moving our public conversation back toward due process. It means accepting that accountability is not vengeance, and sovereignty is not impunity. It also means showing students that institutions — when used seriously — can outlast personalities, platforms, and propaganda.

The confirmation hearing will end, and within sixty days the Chamber will issue its decision. That decision will not erase grief or silence loyalty. But it will mark a moment when law insisted on evidence over applause, and asked a polarized public to meet it there.

Justice does not shout. It documents.

If we are serious about bringing justice home, we must be serious about that difference.

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.