In case you forgot, then-Senator Leila de Lima was arrested within the Senate grounds in 2017 for daring to stand up against former President Rodrigo Duterte’s bloody drug war. For over six years, she languished behind bars—her case a symbol of how the powerful can crush dissent. Fast forward to today, and the script has flipped. Senate President Francis "Chiz" Escudero is now extending what he calls “institutional courtesy” to Senator Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa—the former police chief who spearheaded Duterte’s violent drug crackdown. Should the International Criminal Court (ICC) issue a warrant for his arrest, Escudero says Dela Rosa could “take sanctuary” in the Senate.
What sorcery is this?
The image of a sitting senator evading international justice by hiding out in the hallowed halls of the Philippine Senate is as absurd as it is infuriating. Is the Senate now doubling as a safe house for those with the right political connections? Is this a “by invitation only” refuge, where accountability is optional and protection is reserved for loyal insiders? Because if we’re making up rules as we go, we might as well add a secret tunnel while we’re at it.
Let’s be clear—this is a textbook case of double standards.
When it was Leila de Lima, the Senate offered no such “institutional courtesy.” No sanctuary, no protection. Instead, the institution stood by while a fellow lawmaker was hauled off to jail based on flimsy, politically-motivated charges. But when the ICC, an international body investigating crimes against humanity, could come knocking for Dela Rosa—the architect of a drug war that left thousands of Filipinos dead—the Senate suddenly becomes a fortress.
It’s a far cry from how things work in other democracies. Consider the United States. When Congressman George Santos was exposed for weaving an elaborate web of lies—from fabricating his Jewish heritage to scamming donors—his peers in the U.S. House of Representatives didn’t circle the wagons. Despite not being convicted of a crime, Santos was expelled in a bipartisan vote, making him only the sixth person in U.S. history to face such a fate. Accountability wasn’t a matter of political convenience—it was a non-negotiable principle.
But in the Philippines, accountability is often a privilege, not a standard.
The message this sends is chilling: if you’re a political opponent like Leila de Lima, the Senate won’t protect you. But if you’re an ally who helped enforce an administration’s deadly agenda, you’ll get a shield from international law. The Philippine Senate—supposedly an independent institution representing the people—is being reduced to a partisan hideout.
At the heart of this farce is a deeper question: Who is the Senate really serving? The Filipino people, or the powerful few who manipulate its rules for their own survival? If the institution’s leaders are willing to bend the rules to protect one of their own, then it’s not just the Senate’s integrity at stake—it’s the very idea that no one is above the law.
And if the Senate is now offering sanctuary for those who face serious accusations of human rights abuses, where does it stop? What precedent does it set? Because if the Senate becomes a shelter for the untouchables, then justice is not just delayed—it’s denied.
The irony is stark. Leila de Lima lost six years of her life for defending human rights. Now, the man who oversaw a campaign that trampled on those same rights may get to escape justice, all thanks to the very institution that once turned its back on her.
The double standard is not just glaring—it’s an indictment of a broken system. And if the Senate has become a safe house for impunity, then maybe it’s time to ask: Who will protect the people from the Senate?(TAMBULI NG BAYAN-Ronnie Estrada)
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